THE   STAGE   DOOR 


'When  he  talked  of  my  art  he  really  seemed  inspired." 


THE 

STAGE  DOOR 


BY 

CHARLES   BELMONT   DAVIS 


ILLUSTRATED 


NEW  YORK 

CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S  SONS 
1908 


Copyright,  1908,  by  Charles  Scribner's  Sons 


Published,  May.  1908 


ftf 
MY   MOTHER 


AUTHOR'S    NOTE 

Of  the  ten  stories  included  in  this  volume,  "  Everyman's 
Riddle "  originally  appeared  in  Scribner's  Magazine ; 
"Sedgwick"  and  "The  Flawless  Emerald"  in  Collier's; 
"'Beauty'  Kerrigan"  in  the  American  Magazine;  "A 
Modern  Cleopatra"  in  Munsey's,  and  the  remainder  in 
the  Associated  Sunday  Magazines.  For  permission  to 
use  the  stories  in  their  present  form  I  am  indebted  to  the 
editors  of  these  several  periodicals. 

C.  B.  D. 


CONTENTS 

Everyman's  Riddle  3 

"Beauty"  Kerrigan  39 

Coccaro  the  Clown  81 

"Sedgwick"  111 

A  Modern  Cleopatra  147 

The  Cross  Roads,  New  York  173 

The  Kidnappers  199 

The  Flawless  Emerald  237 

CarmichaeVs  Christmas  Spirit  299 

The  Road  to  Glory  329 


ILLUSTRATIONS 

"When  he  talked  of  my  art  he  really 

seemed  inspired"  Frontispiece 

Facing 
page 

"I  should  say  I  did  know  Hugh  Musgrove"       22 
"  You  told  me  what  I  wished  most  to  know "       30 

"It  was  two  seasons  ago,  when  I  was  singing 

at  Monte  Carlo''  130 

Morgenstern  lay  there  among  the  broken  glass- 
ware 140 

The  Cross  Roads,  New  York  173 

The  actress  at  last  made  her  appearance  252 

"I  put  my  money  on  the  black"  280 


EVERYMAN'S    RIDDLE 


EVERYMAN'S    RIDDLE 

ClURS  was  the  second  train  to  arrive  after  the  ac- 
cident, and  while  the  towering  mass  of  wreckage  had 
remained  untouched,  most  of  the  human  suffering 
had  been  fairly  well  put  under  cover.  The  killed 
had  either  been  carried  into  the  section  house  or 
covered  with  blankets,  and  the  doctors  who  had  ar- 
rived a  short  time  before  us  were  looking  after  the 
more  seriously  injured  in  one  of  the  coaches  of  their 
special. 

It  was  about  five  o'clock  when  our  train  slowed 
up  and  the  brakeman  ran  down  the  aisle  of  the 
smoking-car  and  with  his  big  fist  broke  in  the 
glass  door  of  the  tool-case.  Naturally  when  he 
jumped  off  the  platform  we  followed  him,  and  away 
ahead  of  us  we  could  see  the  two  engines  smashed 
and  bent,  but  erect  and  holding  each  other  up  like 
two  great,  brutal,  fighting  animals  standing  on  their 

3 


THE    STAGE    DOOR 

hind  legs,  too  tired  to  strike  out  and  finish  the  battle. 
The  day  coaches  and  the  sleeping-cars  were  piled 
about  like  a  lot  of  children's  blocks  in  a  nursery.  It 
was  early  in  June,  and  the  sky  was  quite  cloudless 
and  a  deep  blue,  and  the  turf  was  a  marshy  green  and 
yielding;  the  air  was  full  of  the  smell  of  wild  flowers 
and  little  birds  were  hopping  about  and  chirping  all 
over  the  place.  It  was  a  day  that  would  suggest  any- 
thing else  in  the  world  before  death,  and  there  it  was 
— death,  and  worse  than  death  on  every  side  of  us. 

I  looked  about  for  a  wrhile  in  the  hope  of  helping 
some  one,  but  we  were  too  late  to  be  of  any  real  ser- 
vice; it  was  a  case  for  the  doctors,  in  most  instances, 
and  how  can  a  stranger  comfort  a  man  who  has  just 
seen  his  wife  and  children  mangled  out  of  recog- 
nition and  wiped  out  of  his  life  forever  ?  Of  course, 
there  were  some  of  them  that  were  hysterical  to  the 
point  of  danger,  and  there  were  others  that  sat  about 
their  dead,  dry-eyed  and  looking  out  across  the 
fields  as  if  the  setting  of  the  sun  was  the  only  thing 
that  was  of  any  real  interest  to  them  in  the  world.  I 
picked  my  way  across  a  stream  that  ran  by  the  road- 
bed and  climbed  up  a  little  hill  overlooking  the  wreck. 

4 


EVERYMAN'S    RIDDLE 

The  hill  was  thick  with  pine-trees  and  the  ground, 
slippery  with  brown  needles,  was  strewn  with  pieces 
of  painted  wood  from  the  cars  and  glistening,  twisted 
bits  of  machinery  from  the  two  engines.  There  were 
a  good  many  odd  pieces  of  men's  and  women's 
clothing,  too,  lying  about,  and  quite  a  number  of 
broken  hats  and  some  pieces  of  trunks  and  suit- 
cases. Half-way  up  the  hill  a  little  group  of  passen- 
gers had  gathered  about  a  young  man  who  was  sit- 
ting on  the  ground,  his  back  against  a  pine-tree.  He 
had  evidently  been  placed  there  until  the  doctors 
could  carry  him  away  on  one  of  their  improvised 
stretchers.  The  little  circle  who  stood  about  him 
must  have  annoyed  him,  for  as  I  approached  I  saw 
him  half  raise  his  arm  and  motion  them  away.  It 
was  a  feeble  effort  at  best,  but  I  suppose  they  knew 
what  he  meant,  for  the  party  suddenly  broke  up  into 
couples  and  wandered  back  to  the  wreck.  At  the 
moment  I  was  standing  perhaps  twenty  feet  away 
and  a  little  back  of  him,  so  he  probably  believed  that 
he  was  quite  alone.  He  was  a  young  man,  perhaps 
twenty-eight  or  thirty — neither  good  nor  bad  look- 
ing, I  should  think,  but  it  was  difficult  to  tell  exactly, 

5 


THE    STAGE    DOOR 

as  his  face  was  gray  as  putty  and  all  screwed  up  with 
the  pain.  He  was  smooth-shaven  and  he  had  red 
hair  and  was  dressed  as  a  man  would  who  was  in 
good  circumstances.  When  the  circle  about  him 
had  broken  up  and  the  men  had  started  down  the 
hill,  I  noticed  that  a  look  of  great  relief  seemed  to 
come  into  his  face.  His  head  still  resting  against  the 
tree,  he  looked  up  for  a  moment  through  the  straight 
branches  of  the  pines  to  the  patches  of  blue  sky 
above.  I  could  see  his  face  more  clearly  then,  and 
during  that  moment  I  am  sure  that  the  pain  had  left 
him,  that  his  mind  was  clear,  and  that  he  had  asked 
his  last  favor  on  this  earth.  For  a  moment  he  closed 
his  eyes,  and  when  he  opened  them  again  it  was  evi- 
dent that  he  saw  the  little  group  of  men  who  were 
coming  toward  him  with  the  stretcher.  And  then  I 
saw  him  raise  his  arm  with  great  difficulty  and  take 
from  the  inside  pocket  of  his  coat  a  folded  piece  of  a 
newspaper.  This  he  spread  out  upon  his  knees,  but 
after  one  brief  glance  he  crumpled  it  in  both  hands 
and  threw  it  as  far  away  from  him  as  his  feeble 
strength  allowed. 

They  carried  him  away  down  the  little  hill  over 
6 


EVERYMAN'S    RIDDLE 

the  soft  carpet  of  pine-needles,  glowing  like  copper 
in  the  broad  shafts  of  the  evening  sun.  As  they 
reached  the  creek  I  saw  the  arm  of  the  young  man, 
which  had  been  resting  over  his  eyes,  suddenly  fall 
to  his  side.  For  a  moment  the  little  procession 
halted;  one  of  the  physicians  knelt  at  the  side  of  the 
litter  and  looked  searchingly  into  the  face  of  the 
young  man.  Then  the  doctor  pulled  himself  to  his 
feet  again  and  nodded  in  the  direction  of  the  section 
house,  and  they  carried  him  on  very  slowly  and  very 
silently,  with  their  hats  in  their  hands.  As  I  started 
down  the  hill  I  saw  the  crumpled  piece  of  paper 
which  the  young  man  had  thrown  away  lying  but  a 
few  feet  from  me.  For  a  moment  I  hesitated,  and 
then  I  went  over  to  where  it  lay  and  picked  it  up.  It 
was  half  a  page  torn  from  the  Saturday  illustrated 
supplement  of  a  New  York  evening  paper.  At  the 
first  glance  it  looked  dull  enough,  but  I  felt  sure  that 
somewhere  it  contained  at  least  a  minor  story  in  the 
life  of  the  young  man;  so  I  carefully  folded  the  torn, 
crumpled  sheet  and  put  it  away  in  my  pocket.  Then 
I  walked  down  to  the  section  house  where  the  young 
man  had  already  been  identified  by  some  letters  and 

7 


THE    STAGE    DOOR 

his  visiting-cards.  His  name  was  Hugh  Musgrove 
and  the  address  given  was  "Editorial  Rooms — Tlie 

Evening ,  New  York." 

It  was  some  hours  later,  when  our  train  had 
started  on  a  long  circuitous  route  to  New  York,  that 
I  again  looked  at  the  torn  piece  of  newspaper  that 
Musgrove  had  thrown  away  just  previous  to  his 
death.  On  one  side  there  was  a  description  of  a 
recent  flood  in  the  Far  West -and  some  illustrations 
showing  the  damage  it  had  done;  the  other  side  was 
part  of  the  dramatic  department  of  the  paper  and 
the  letter  press  was  devoted  to  a  description  of  sev- 
eral theatrical  attractions  which  were  to  open  in  New 
York  the  following  Monday.  In  addition  to  the  let- 
ter press  there  were  three  pictures — all  of  women. 
The  centre  and  largest  picture  of  the  three  was  a  big, 
handsome  woman,  dressed  in  the  robes  of  Brunhilde. 
The  caption  under  the  picture  read — "Madame 
Carlotta  Helma,  who  gives  her  farewell  song  recital 
Thursday  afternoon  at  Carnegie  Hall."  On  the 
right  side  of  this  there  was  a  picture  of  a  very  young 
woman  with  a  slight  girlish  figure  and  a  face  re- 
markable for  a  wonderful  purity  and  sweetness  of 

8 


EVERYMAN'S     RIDDLE 

expression.  She  was  dressed  in  a  very  simple  evening 
dress  and  was  posed  as  if  about  to  begin  playing  the 
violin.  Under  this  picture  was  the  line,  "Miss  Agnes 
Beach,  who  makes  her  debut  Wednesday  night  with 
the  Philharmonic  Society  orchestra  at  Chickering 
Hall."  The  third  picture  was  that  of  a  young  woman, 
remarkable  at  least  for  her  figure  and  a  wealth  of 
hair,  which  may  or  may  not  have  been  a  wig.  She 
had  big  eyes,  clean-cut  features,  and  although  she 
was  undoubtedly  heavily  made  up  when  the  original 
photograph  had  been  taken,  her  beauty  was  easily 
evident.  The  caption  read:  "Miss  Deane  Kimball, 
in  the  Cockatoo  chorus  of  'The  Belle  and  the  Bandit,' 
which  opens  Monday  night  at  the  Casino." 

Perhaps  it  was  from  mere  curiosity,  or  perhaps 
there  was  an  underlying  hope  of  doing  a  kindly  act  in 
telling  one  of  the  three  women  the  last  incident  in  the 
life  of  Musgrove,  but  whatever  the  motive,  when  I  re- 
turned to  New  York,  I  wrote  a  letter  to  each  of  the 
three.  The  addresses  of  Madame  Helma  and  Miss 
Beach  I  learned  through  a  musical  agency.  The 
letter  to  Miss  Kimball  I  mailed  to  the  Casino.  This 
is  what  I  wrote  in  each  letter: 

9 


THE    STAGE    DOOR 

DEAR  MADAM:  Following  the  recent  terrible  railroad 
accident  at  Mill's  Crossing,  it  was  my  misfortune  to  be 
present  at  the  death  of  a  young  man  whom,  I  believe,  you 
numbered  among  your  friends.  As  it  is  purely  a  private 
matter,  I  am  tempted  to  ask  you  to  permit  me  to  call  on 
you  personally,  rather  than  to  write  you  concerning  the 

incident.  Believe  me, 

Yours  truly,  etc. 

For  several  days  after  the  accident  I  carefully  read 
the  newspapers  to  obtain,  if  possible,  some  informa- 
tion concerning  Hugh  Musgrove.  In  the  revised  lists 
of  the  dead  he  was  referred  to  as  either  the  assistant 
musical,  or  assistant  dramatic,  critic  of  The  Evening 

,  or  merely  as  a  journalist.  Not  a  word  about  his 

home  or  his  family,  and  the  last  I  saw  about  him  in 
the  papers  was  a  paragraph  to  the  effect  that  he  had 
been  buried  from  an  Eighth  Avenue  undertaker's 
shop. 

Within  forty-eight  hours  after  I  had  mailed  my 
letters  I  received  an  answer  from  each  of  the  three 
women.  Madame  Helma  asked  me  to  call  the 
following  evening  at  half  past  six  o'clock  at  the 
Cambridge  Hotel;  Miss  Beach,  who  answered  me 

10 


EVERYMAN'S    RIDDLE 

through  her  father,  said  that  she  could  see  me  any 
evening  after  eight  o'clock  at  her  home  on  Clinton 
Place;  Miss  Kimball  sent  me  as  her  address  The 
Barclay,  on  West  Forty-third  Street,  and  said  that 
she  could  usually  be  found  at  home  between  five  and 
seven-thirty  in  the  evening.  None  of  them  mentioned 
Musgrove's  name,  but  that  did  not  surprise  me,  as  I 
had  refrained  from  writing  it  myself,  and  in  a  wreck 
of  such  proportions  as  the  one  at  Mill's  Crossing,  it 
was  possible  for  almost  every  one  to  have  numbered 
one  or  more  friends  in  the  list  of  the  killed. 

With  the  torn  piece  of  newspaper  in  my  coat 
pocket  I  presented  myself  the  next  evening  at  the 
Cambridge  and  was  shown  to  Madame  Helma's 
apartment.  Of  the  woman  I  knew  but  little  beyond 
the  fact  that  she  was  born  in  America  and  that  she 
was  recognized  as  one  of  the  greatest  dramatic  so- 
pranos in  the  world.  In  a  vague  way  I  rather  imag- 
ined I  had  heard  that  she  had  been  married  to  an 
Austrian  officer  of  title.  I  did  not  for  a  moment  be- 
lieve that  she  was  the  one  of  the  three  women  who 
had  interested  the  ill-fated  Musgrove,  but  it  was  part 
of  my  general  plan  to  call  on  all  three  of  them,  and 

11 


THE    STAGE    DOOR 

the  appointment  which  she  had  made  for  me  was  the 
first  to  find  me  at  leisure.  Madame  occupied  a  suite 
on  the  third  floor  of  the  hotel  at  the  corner  overlooking 
Fifth  Avenue.  Her  Austrian  husband,  with  a  small, 
tawny  pointed  mustache  and  a  tawny  pointed  beard, 
met  me  at  the  door  and  showed  me  with  much  man- 
ner into  the  drawing-room.  For  a  few  moments  we 
chatted  on  purely  impersonal  subjects,  looked  at 
large,  fiercely  autographed  photographs  of  other 
opera  singers  which  stood  about  on  the  mantel-shelf 
and  piano,  and  then  the  portieres  opened  and  Ma- 
dame Helma  herself  appeared.  She  was  a  very  big, 
fine-looking  woman,  and  in  the  little  salon  and  by  the 
side  of  her  husband,  she  really  appeared  quite  heroic 
in  size.  She  was  evidently  on  her  way  to  dinner,  and 
her  dress  and  opera-cloak  as  well  as  her  jewels  were 
really  regal.  Her  manner  to  me,  might  be  described, 
in  a  general  way,  as  gracious,  but  it  was  the  gra- 
ciousness  of  the  truly  condescending  and  like  the 
few  other  opera  singers  I  have  known,  her  belief  in 
herself  was  so  great  that  she  appeared  as  two  women 
— the  great  artist  standing  quite  apart,  the  other,  the 
female  worshipper,  ready  to  admire  at  any  distance. 

12 


EVERYMAN'S     RIDDLE 

Madame  Helma  threw  her  cloak  over  one  of  the 
deep  red  velvet  chairs,  sank  majestically  into  an- 
other, and  with  a  move  of  her  ample  arm,  consigned 
me  to  a  small  brocade  and  gold  affair  with  very 
slight  spindle  legs.  The  Austrian  husband  stood 
by  the  fireplace  and  alternately  puffed  at  a  cigar- 
ette and  twisted  the  ends  of  his  beard  and  tawny 
mustache. 

Madame  preferred  to  dispense  with  all  prelimi- 
nary formalities.  "Your  note  said,"  she  began, 
"that  you  wished  to  see  me  on  a  matter  of  a  more 
or  less  personal  nature." 

The  husband  glanced  up  and  took  a  step  toward 
the  door,  but  madame,  with  a  barely  perceptible 
movement  of  the  wrist,  waved  him  back  to  the 
hearth.  The  husband  clicked  his  heels  and  bowed 
to  us  in  turn.  "It  is  more  than  possible,"  I  said, 
"that  I  have  made  a  serious  mistake,  Madame 
Helma,  and  that  this  visit  may  prove  but  an  unnec- 
essary annoyance  to  you." 

The  eyebrows  of  madame  became  somewhat 
pointed  and  I  saw  the  husband  stealthily  pull  out  his 
watch. 

13 


THE    STAGE    DOOR 

"I  am  coming  to  the  point  at  once,"  I  said.  "Did 
you  by  any  chance  ever  know  a  young  newspaper 
man  by  the  name  of  Hugh  Musgrove?"  Madame 
Helma  slowly  and  deliberately  bowed  her  assent. 
She  evidently  did  not  wish  to  have  the  young  man 
regarded  as  one  of  her  intimates. 

"I  know  him  but  slightly,"  she  said  thoughtfully. 
"You  remember  him,  Louis,  surely — the  young  man 
that  came  to  interview  me  after  the  'Traviata'  mat- 
inee, when  the  draperies  caught  fire  on  the  stage  at 
the  Metropolitan  and  I  saved,  oh,  so  many  lives  ? 
He  also  came  to  tea  one  day  later  when  we  had  some 
other  newspaper  men." 

"I  know  him  well,  very  well,"  said  the  husband. 
"He  was  most  charming,  gracious,  and,  my  dear, 
how  he  admired  you!  What  is  the  matter  with  the 
young  man?" 

"Oh,"  I  said,  "you  don't  know?"  Madame 
Helma  was  arranging  a  piece  of  lace  on  her  corsage, 
but  the  husband  shook  his  head. 

"He  was  killed,"  I  said,  "in  a  railroad  wreck  at 
Mill's  Crossing." 

"Mon  Dieu,"  said  the  husband;  "what  do  you 
14 


EVERYMAN'S    RIDDLE 

think  of  that!  He  was  so  young,  and  how  he  loved 
my  Carlotta!" 

Madame  Helma  looked  up  at  her  husband  ques- 
tioningly.  "I  wonder,  Louis,  if  he  really  did  love 
me — the  poor  boy !  He  was  young  and  not  bad  look- 
ing. I  can  almost  see  him  now.  He  sat  where  you 
are  sitting — it  was  but  very  recently — almost  the 
•  other  day.  And  when  he  talked  of  my  art  he  really 
seemed  inspired." 

"Vraiment,"  interrupted  the  husband,  "his  love 
for  you,  as  you  say,  was  inspired.  Le  pauvre  gar- 
con!" 

"I  don't  think  he  loved  me  at  all,"  Madame 
Helma  interrupted.  "True,  he  told  me  how  he  ad- 
mired me  for  having  withstood  all  the  temptations 
with  which  every  great  artist  is  beset.  We  are  very 
temperamental,  you  know,  of  course,  very  tempera- 
mental. Many  of  my  sisters  in  art  have  succumbed 
to  their  artistic  environment,  but  I  have  happily  re- 
mained saturated  in  the  very  essence  of  temperament 
and  yet  withstood  its  entanglements." 

The  virtues  of  Madame  Helma  seemed  fairly 
to  swell  within  her  and  her  magnificent  physique 

15 


THE    STAGE    DOOR 

to  fill  the  red  plush  chair  even  more  amply  than 
before. 

"I  think  it  was  for  this,"  she  went  on,  "and  for 
my  position  in  the  social  world  that  Mr.  Musgrove 
really  admired  me.  Don't  you  remember,  Louis, 
when  he  told  us  how  he  used  to  go  to  all  my  per- 
formances and  watch  the  people  and  their  enthusi- 
asm? He  spoke  particularly  of  my  rendering  of 
'Dich,  theure  Halle,'  and  how  the  audience  rose  and 
cheered  me."  For  a  moment  Madame  Helma  be- 
came almost  human.  "I  remember  he  said  that  that 
represented  to  him  the  very  pinnacle  of  fame;  that 
.while  the  author  and  the  painter  might  know  a  more 
enduring  success,  the  reward  came  slowly — often 
after  death — while  the  great  opera  singer  could  her- 
self feel  the  tremendous  effect  on  her  audience  and 
receive  their  homage  at  almost  the  same  moment. 
I  think  it  was  just  fame  that  that  young  man  craved 
— fame  and  glory  and  the  notoriety  that  goes  with  it. 
It  was  natural,  after  all,  because  he  really,  I  suppose, 
had  no  fame  at  all,  had  he  ?  Louis,  you  had  better 
send  some  flowers  to  his  funeral." 

"It's  too  late,  I  fear,"  I  answered,  rising.  "The 
16 


EVERYMAN'S    RIDDLE 

young  man  was  buried  yesterday,  and,  as  you  sug- 
gest, without  ever  having  attained  to  any  great  de- 
gree of  fame.  He  was  buried  from  an  undertaker's 
shop  on  Eighth  Avenue." 

My  mission  was  at  an  end.  Of  the  three  women 
whose  portraits  appeared  in  the  paper,  which  I  still 
had  in  my  inside  pocket,  Madame  Helma's  was  the 
last  which  I  should  have  imagined  would  have  occu- 
pied a  young  man's  thoughts,  with  death  staring 
him  in  the  face.  Nothing,  however,  would  have  in- 
duced me  to  show  the  torn  newspaper  to  Madame 
Helma,  or  to  have  told  her  how  and  why  it  came 
into  my  possession.  As  I  reached  the  door  of  the 
apartment,  however,  it  seemed  incumbent  upon  me 
to  say  something,  which  would  answer  as  an  apology 
for  my  visit. 

"I  fear,  Madame  Helma,"  I  said,  "that  I  have 
intruded  upon  you  needlessly — I  knew  Hugh  Mus- 
grove  very  slightly,  but  from  an  incident  in  his  life  I 
imagined  that  he  was  a  friend  of  yours  rather  than 
an  acquaintance.  I  was  with  him  when  he  died,  and 
I  thought  that  you  might  care  to  hear  more  of  his 
end.  I  must  ask  your  pardon  for  my  error." 

17 


THE    STAGE    DOOR 

Madame  Helma  was  being  helped  into  her  mantle 
by  her  Austrian  husband.  We  all  three  bowed 
somewhat  stiffly — I  fear  I  had  made  them  a  little 
late  for  their  dinner.  The  large  presence  of  Madame 
Helma  had  overpowered  me,  and  its  spell  was  still 
upon  me  as  I  wandered  down  the  ill-lit  hallway  and 
rang  for  the  elevator.  At  least,  in  one  thing,  she  was 
wise.  Musgrove  did  not  love  her — in  his  eyes  she 
stood  for  fame.  And  so  it  seemed  his  last  thoughts 
were  of  her,  the  last  face  he  looked  upon  was  that  of 
Madame  Helma — and  the  face  of  Madame  Helma 
was  to  him  the  sweetest  face  in  all  the  world,  because 
it  was  the  face  of  fame  and  because  the  lips  of  fame 
had  never  touched  his  own. 

I  confess  that  I  was  glad  to  reach  the  sidewalk  and 
breathe  the  fresh  air  again.  I  turned  down  Thirty- 
third  Street,  and  before  I  had  walked  a  block  my 
feelings,  which  had  been  badly  ruffled  by  Madame 
Helma  and  her  miserable  little  husband,  were  pretty 
well  under  control.  I  did  not  know  Hugh  Musgrove, 
but  I  was  really  annoyed  that  any  man  should  have 
died  with  the  thought  of  that  woman  in  his  brain. 
As  I  turned  into  Broadway,  I  noticed  the  clock  over 

18 


EVERYMAN'S    RIDDLE 

the  Dime  Savings  Bank.  It  was  a  quarter  to  seven. 
"Why  not?"  I  mumbled,  and  jumped  on  a  north- 
bound surface  car. 

I  found  The  Barclay  to  be  like  most  of  the  other 
modern  apartment  houses  that  lie  north  of  Forty- 
second  Street  and  west  of  Fifth  Avenue.  On  the 
office  floor  there  was  the  usual  luxurious  display  of 
varicolored  marble,  frescoes,  brass  railings  and  large 
mirrors,  but  as  the  elevator  shot  upward,  the  colored 
marble  and  frescoes  gave  way  to  burlap,  and  at  the 
tenth  floor,  on  which  Miss  Deane  Kimball  had  her 
apartment,  the  walls  could  boast  of  but  the  cheapest 
kind  of  wall-paper.  As  I  entered  the  sitting-room 
Miss  Kimball  rose  from  the  table  at  which  she  had 
been  eating  her  dinner.  The  meal  seemed  to  have 
been  a  somewhat  frugal  one  and  was  served  on  a 
napkin-covered  tin  tray.  Miss  Kimball  nodded  to 
me  cheerfully,  removed  a  large  cup  of  coffee  from 
the  tray  and  covered  the  remnants  of  her  dinner  with 
her  napkin. 

"You  must  excuse  the  condition  of  the  room,"  she 
said,  "but  I  have  been  lying  about  all  day  and 
the  girl  has  had  no  time  to  fix  it  up."  She  spoke 

19 


THE    STAGE    DOOR 

in  the  low-pitched,  drawling  voice  of  the  Virginia 
bred. 

Under  the  circumstances,  it  seemed  obligatory 
Upon  me  to  cast  one  glance  about  before  I  could  pro- 
test that  the  condition  of  the  room  was  all  it  should 
be.  I  found  the  walls  were  decorated  with  many 
photographs  of  Miss  Kimball,  and,  I  believe,  Miss 
Kimball  only,  although  the  costumes  in  which  she 
had  posed  were  many  and  varied.  There  was  a  tiny 
desk,  a  few  lounging  chairs,  and  a  cozy-corner  strewn 
with  copies  of  the  evening  newspapers.  In  the  gen- 
eral tidiness  of  her  appearance  Miss  Kimball  scarcely 
rose  superior  to  that  of  her  surroundings.  She  wore 
a  black  silk  underskirt,  a  pink  dressing-sack  covered 
with  much  imitation  lace,  and  her  great  mass  of  red 
hair  was  sadly  dishevelled.  She  was  one  of  the  few 
women  I  had  ever  seen  whose  physical  attractions, 
judged  from  a  purely  material  standpoint,  admitted 
of  no  discussion.  Her  color  was  as  clear,  her  eyes 
as  bright,  her  figure  as  lithe,  every  move  of  her  arms 
and  body  as  supple  as  that  of  an  athlete.  Her  dress 
may  have  been  careless,  but  her  condition  was  superb. 

"Won't  you  sit  down?"  she  said.  "I'll  have  to 
20 


EVERYMAN'S    RIDDLE 

go  to  the  theatre  pretty  soon."  She  walked  over  to 
the  fireplace  and  looked  at  herself  in  the  glass.  She 
ran  the  white  tapering  fingers  of  both  hands  through 
the  heavy  mass  of  hair.  "I'm  a  sight,"  she  said,  but 
as  she  said  it,  I  looked  into  the  mirror  and  saw  her 
smiling  at  her  own  beauty. 

She  returned  to  the  table,  and  still  standing,  raised 
with  both  hands  the  heavy  china  cup  of  coffee  to  her 
lips  and  sipped  at  it  slowly.  Her  manner  seemed  to 
me  to  be  more  casual  than  familiar.  It  was  as  if  I 
had  known  her  always  and  had  dropped  in  to  discuss 
our  party  of  the  night  previous.  If  she  had  ever 
understood  that  I  had  called  on  her  with  a  definite 
purpose  in  view,  such  an  idea  was  apparently  wholly 
foreign  to  her  now.  But  the  time  was  short,  and  so 
I  came  to  the  point  at  once. 

"Miss  Kimball,"  I  said,  "did  you  ever  know  Hugh 
Musgrove  ? "  She  turned  her  big  smiling  eyes  on  me 
over  the  rim  of  the  cup,  and  took  a  particularly  long 
sip  of  coffee. 

"I  certainly  did,"  she  said.  "I  should  say  I  did 
know  Hugh  Musgrove.  He  was  killed  in  that  wreck 
the  other  day.  I'd  have  gone  to  his  funeral  only  I 

21 


THE    STAGE    DOOR 

thought  there  would  propably  be  a  lot  of  newspaper 
boys  there  and  they  might  feature  me.  I  wasn't  look- 
ing for  that  kind  of  ad.  He'd  have  got  all  the  adver- 
tising he  wanted  when  my  divorce  comes  up  next 
month.  Now  he's  gone,  they  probably  won't  men- 
tion his  name  at  the  trial  at  all.  If  I'd  gone  to  the 
funeral  that  might  all  have  come  out,  mightn't  it? 
I  sent  him  a  pillow  of  roses  without  a  card,  or  a 
motto,  or  anything  on  it.  I  heard  the  tributes  were 
all  right." 

The  door  opened  and  a  girl  walked  in.  Her  dark, 
glossy  hair  was  heavily  marcelled  and  she  wore  a 
black  cloth  coat  and  a  closely  fitting  white  flannel 
skirt.  She  stopped  at  the  doorway  while  she  stuck 
a  hat-pin  through  the  crown  of  a  broad  black  hat. 
Miss  Kimball  introduced  her  as  "My  friend  from 
the  end  of  the  hall — Miss  Wilmot."  The  girl  nodded 
to  me,  walked  over  to  the  window,  and  looked  out  on 
the  brick  court.  She  had  heavy,  handsome  features 
and  an  olive  complexion  and  her  face  seemed  inca- 
pable of  showing  any  emotion  whatever. 

"Hurry  up,  Deane,"  she  said;  "it's  time  to  start 
for  the  theatre." 

22 


"I  should  say  I  did  know  Hugh  Musgrove. 


EVERYMAN'S    RIDDLE 

"The  bubble's  not  here  yet,"  answered  Miss  Kim- 
ball,  sitting  down  at  the  table,  "and  I've  only  got  to 
change  my  skirt.  I'm  not  going  out  after  the  show. 
This  gentleman  knew  Hugh." 

"I  did  not  know  him  very  well,  but  I  happened  to 
be  with  him  when  he  died,"  I  said  half  apologetically, 
although  an  apology  seemed  rather  superfluous. 

Miss  Wilmot  continued  to  look  out  on  the  court 
and  beat  a  slow  tattoo  on  the  window-pane.  "He 
was  a  good  boy,"  she  said.  "He  liked  Deane." 

Miss  Kimball  intertwined  her  fingers  behind  her 
head  and  gazed  up  at  the  chandelier.  "Yes,  he  liked 
me  all  right,"  she  said  reflectively.  "You  see,  he  used 
to  come  up  here  and  sit  of  an  afternoon  when  he  was 
tired  after  the  office.  It  was  a  sort  of  home  to  him. 
He  could  smoke  a  cigarette  and  play  the  piano  if  he 
wanted  to.  Why,  I'd  known  Hugh  Musgrove  all  my 
life.  We  used  to  play  together  in  Richmond  when 
we  were  kids.  He  lived  right  around  our  corner. 
His  folks  were  splendid  people — no  better  in  Rich- 
mond. We  used  to  spin  tops  and  jump  rope  to- 
gether, and  prisoners'  base  it  was  we  used  to  play." 

"That's  why  he  didn't  like  getting  mixed  up  in 
23 


THE    STAGE    DOOR 

the  divorce,"  Miss  Wilmot  interrupted.  "Did  you 
know  that,  Deane  ?  Sure  as  you're  born,  that's  what 
he  told  me." 

"What?" 

"Why,  that  no  gentleman  ought  to  ever  be  mixed 
up  in  a  divorce  suit  with  a  girl  he'd  spun  tops  with. 
He  said  it  was  worse  than  cheating  at  cards." 

Miss  Kimball  stretched  her  well-rounded  arms  in 
front  of  her  on  the  table.  "He  did,  eh?  Now  what 
do  you  think  of  that?  He  was  a  -queer  kid.  He  was 
sort  of  cheap,  and  yet,  in  his  way,  he  was  all  right. 
He  was  a  comfortable  sort  of  person  to  have  around." 

The  telephone  bell  rang  and  Miss  Wilmot  crossed 
the  room  and  took  off  the  receiver.  "It's  the  elec- 
tric, Deane,"  she  said.  "Hurry  up;  we're  late  now!" 

Miss  Kimball  sat  unmoved,  her  pink  arms  in  front 
of  her.  Then  she  turned  questioningly  to  me.  "You 
didn't  know  him  well,  you  said?" 

I  nodded. 

"Well,  now,  I'll  tell  you.  He  was  the  kind  of 
man  if  you  needed  money  and  sent  out  a  hurry  call 
or  a  circular  letter,  you  could  always  depend  on  him. 
Not  much — but  a  five  or  ten — and  the  friends  that 

24 


EVERYMAN'S    RIDDLE 

could  give  up  a  yellow-back  and  not  feel  it  would  for- 
get you.  You  know  what  I  mean  ?" 

Miss  Kimball  pulled  herself  together  and  glanced 
up  at  the  scowling  face  of  Miss  Wilmot.  "You 
want  to  go — don't  you,  May  ?  Can't  we  drop  you 
some  place  ?"  she  added,  turning  to  me. 

"You're  very  good,"  I  said;  "but  I'm  not  going 
far." 

"No?  Hughey  was  very  fond  of  the  bubble — 
anything  with  soft  cushions  and  that  came  easy.  He 
was  a  bit  of  a  loafer,  Hughey.  Was  there  anything 
else  you  wanted  to  know  about  him  ?"  Miss  Kimball 
got  up  from  the  table  and  held  out  her  hand.  "Glad 
to  have  met  you.  Don't  make  yourself  strange.  I 
suppose  you  come  to  the  theatre  sometimes  ? " 

"Yes,  I  shall  come  even  more  often  now,"  I  said. 
I  shook  her  slim,  well-cared-for  hand,  bowed  to  Miss 
Wilmot,  and  took  my  leave. 

As  I  again  passed  through  the  marble  hallway  of 
The  Barclay  I  could  not,  even  had  I  wished  it,  throw 
off  completely  the  spell  of  the  woman  upstairs;  the 
low  purr  of  her  voice,  the  wonderful  animal  beauty 
of  her  face  and  hair,  and,  above  all,  the  indolent 

25 


THE    STAGE    DOOR 

grace  of  her,  were  just  as  evident  to  me  then  as  they 
were  when  I  was  in  the  same  room  with  her.  I  saw 
her  often  afterward  pn  the  stage,  which  seemed,  after 
all,  to  be  the  niche  which  nature  had  carved  out  for 
her.  It  was  not  easy  to  conceive,  for  instance,  the 
dimpled  arms  pushing  a  perambulator,  or  the  high, 
silk-clad  instep  working  the  pedal  of  a  sewing- 
machine.  As  a  picture  framed  by  a  proscenium  arch 
and  lit  by  a  row  of  footlights,  Miss  Deane  Kimball 
was  a  superb,  vital  force,  and  if  the  last  thoughts  of 
the  somewhat  human  Mr.  Musgrove  harked  back  to 
the  days  of  her  regime,  it  is  for  each  one  to  censure  or 
praise,  as  the  case  may  be. 

It  was  just  eight  o'clock  the  next  night  when  I  got 
off  a  Broadway  car  at  Eighth  Street  and  walked 
slowly  west  toward  Sixth  Avenue,  looking  up  at  the 
dingy  doorways  for  the  number  of  the  house  of  Miss 
Agnes  Beach.  I  found  it  at  last — a  fine  example  of 
the  old  New  York  home.  Its  faded  brick  front  with 
brown-stone  trimmings  was  flanked  on  one  side  by 
a  cheap  table-d'hote  restaurant  and  on  the  other  by  a 
delicatessen  shop.  With  its  polished  windows  and 
well-scrubbed  steps,  the  old  mansion  seemed  to  hold 

26 


EVERYMAN'S    RIDDLE 

a  place  of  much  dignity  in  that  decayed  and  unkempt 
neighborhood.  Isolated  and  forgotten,  the  very 
name  of  its  street  taken  from  it,  the  old  place  stood 
there  protesting  against  the  changes  of  the  last  fifty 
years  and  the  squalor  they  had  brought  to  its  door. 
I  climbed  the  steep,  worn  steps  and  pulled  at  the  little 
bell,  sunk  deep  in  its  round  brass  socket.  An  old 
man  with  white  hair  opened  the  door  and  stood  bow- 
ing before  me  in  the  broad  hallway.  He  wore  a 
dressing-gown  of  quilted  silk  tied  about  his  waist 
with  a  cord  with  tassels  at  the  ends  of  it.  As  I  stepped 
into  the  hallway  I  looked  beyond  to  a  broad  stairway 
and  walls  and  curtains  of  faded  red.  It  occurred  to 
me,  at  the  time,  as  the  only  background  possible  for 
the  old  man  with  the  white  hair  and  the  quilted 
dressing-gown. 

"You  are  the  gentleman,  I  presume,"  he  said, 
"who  wrote  my  niece  in  regard  to  that  terrible  dis- 
aster." 

"Your  niece  is  Miss  Agnes  Beach,  then  ?"  I  asked. 

The  old  man  bowed.  "She  and  her  father  have 
their  apartments  on  the  floor  above.  If  you  will 

kindly  follow  me "  The  old  man  started  slowly 

27 


THE    STAGE    DOOR 

up  the  stairway,  leaning  heavily  on  the  balustrade. 
Apparently,  then,  I  was  expected,  and  perhaps,  after 
all,  I  had  done  well  to  make  this  third  visit.  I  could 
easily  understand  that  the  members  of  this  household 
were  not  accustomed  to  receive  unusual  letters  from 
unknown  young  men,  and  that  the  visit  of  a  stranger 
was,  without  question,  an  event  of  some  moment. 
A  single  hanging  gas-burner  lit  us  on  our  way  up  the 
long  stairway.  Our  shoes  sunk  noiselessly  into  the 
deep  faded  carpet  and  the  complete  silence  of 
the  place  oppressed  me.  For  a  moment  I  halted  on  the 
stairway,  listening  for  the  rumble  of  a  cart,  the  jangle 
of  a  car-bell,  or  the  cry  of  a  newsboy  from  the  world 
outside,  but  through  the  heavy  walls  of  the  old  house 
no  sound  reached  me.  Surely,  then,  I  had  found  iso- 
lation itself  and  the  most  cruel  loneliness  of  all — the 
loneliness  of  a  great  city. 

The  old  man  knocked  gently  at  the  door  at  the 
head  of  the  landing,  and  his  brother,  in  appearance 
and  in  the  courtesy  of  his  manner,  his  very  counter- 
part, bowed  me  graciously  into  the  sitting-room.  There 
was  but  little  light — only  a  lamp  on  the  centre-table, 
but  as  I  entered  I  saw  a  girl  rise  from  the  shadows  of 

28 


EVERYMAN'S    RIDDLE 

a  far  corner  and  come  to  greet  me.  She  was  dressed 
in  deep  mourning,  and  even  in  the  dim  light  I  could 
see  her  drawn  face  and  the  heavy  shadows  under  her 
eyes.  When  she  reached  the  centre  table  she  stopped 
and  held  out  a  white  hand  toward  me.  In  the  soft 
glow  of  the  lamp  I  saw  again  the  face  of  the  girl  with 
the  violin.  There  was  the  same  childish  beauty,  the 
same  sincerity  and  sweetness,  but  added  to  all  this 
there  was  a  pathos,  an  unconscious  plea  for  human 
pity. 

"You  were  with  Hugh  when  he  died  ?"  she  asked. 

"Yes,"  I  said,  "I  was  with  him  until  the  very 
end." 

Through  her  clouded  eyes  she  looked  up  at  me  as 
if,  indeed,  mine  had  been  a  great  privilege. 

"He — he  didn't  suffer  much?"  she  whispered. 

"No,"  I  said.  "I  thought  you  would  want  to  know 
that  the  end  came  very  quickly  and  very  peacefully." 
The  dull-yellow  glare  from  the  lamp  suddenly  seemed 
to  flare  up  before  me  and  I  saw  a  young  man  sitting 
with  his  back  resting  against  a  tree  on  a  hillside. 
The  whole  place  was  bathed  in  yellow  sunlight  and 
the  air  was  full  of  the  smell  of  springtime,  but  through 

29 


THE    STAGE    DOOR 

it  all  I  saw  the  face  of  the  young  man,  ashen  and 
twisted.  I  felt  the  girl's  hand  loosen  in  my  own,  and 
so  I  grasped  it  tightly,  and  the  contact  of  it  brought 
me  back  to  the  lamp  at  my  side  and  the  girl  in  black 
and  the  old  man  standing  silently  at  the  door. 

"You  knew  him  before,  then  ?"  she  asked. 

"No,"  I  said,  "I  never  knew  him  before." 

The  girl  looked  up  at  me  as  if  she  could  not  quite 
understand  how  it  was  that  every  one  had  not  known 
Hugh  Musgrove.  "He  was  very  good  to  know," 
she  said.  And  then  the  very  inadequacy  of  her  words 
forced  a  smile  to  her  pale  lips.  "And  he  was  very 
fine,"  she  added,  "and  true — and  he  was  so  very — 
so  very  good  to  dad  and  me." 

"I  wish  I  could  have  told  you  more,"  I  said. 

The  girl  nodded  her  head.  "You  told  me  what  I 
wished  most  to  know.  I  am  so  glad  you  came." 

Her  hand,  nerveless  and  cold,  dropped  from  my 
own  and  I  bowed  myself  to  the  door.  Her  father 
closed  it  softly  behind  us  and  led  me  down  the  broad 
stairway  to  his  brother's  apartment  on  the  ground 
floor.  With  much  courtesy  my  host  asked  me  to  be 
seated  at  a  centre-table,  about  which  three  chairs 

30 


'You  told  me  what  I  wished  most  to  know. 


EVERYMAN'S    RIDDLE 

had  been  placed.  On  the  polished  surface  of  the  old 
mahogany  there  were  three  glasses,  a  decanter  of  port 
and  some  crackers  in  a  silver  cake-basket.  The  host 
poured  out  the  wine  and  after  raising  our  glasses  we 
drank  in  silence.  The  father  of  Miss  Beach  leaned 
across  the  table  and  laid  his  hand  gently  on  my  arm. 

"You  must  not  be  hurt,  sir,  if  my  daughter  gave 
you  but  a  scant  welcome,"  he  said.  "Youth  is  always 
intolerant,  you  know,  and  she  is  very  young.  Her 
mother  died  when  the  girl  was  only  a  child,  and  this 
is  her  first  tragedy.  She  cannot  quite  understand 
why  it  should  have  come  to  her."  The  old  man  hesi- 
tated for  a  moment  and  apparently  unconsciously 
raised  the  glass  to  his  lips. 

"Perhaps  you  did  not  know,"  he  went  on,  "that 
Hugh  was  engaged  to  my  daughter — it  was  just 
about  to  be  announced.  If  all  went  well  they  were 
to  be  married  in  the  fall.  He  was  her  life — he  and 
her  music.  They  played  together  almost  every  night. 
I  used  to  accompany  her,  but  then  Hugh  came  and 
she  would  allow  only  him  to  play  for  her,  although 
I  have  been  a  music-teacher  for  many  years,  and  he 
— well,  he  did  not  play  very  well.  She  was  quite 
31 


THE    STAGE    DOOR 

deaf  to  his  mistakes — love,  you  know,  they  say,  is 
blind,  and  I  have  thought  it  was  often  deaf,  too. 
He  really  played,  oh,  so  badly.  But  it  was  wonderful 
to  see  the  lights  in  her  eyes  when  she  took  the  bow  in 
her  hand  and  waited  for  Hugh  to  play  the  first  notes. 
And  now  she  is  so  tired  and  frail  and  the  color  is 
gone — she  is  as  white  as  we  two  old  men."  He  stopped 
for  a  moment  and  with  his  elbow  on  the  table  rested 
his  chin  in  the  palm  of  his  hand. 

"But  Hugh  was  of  great  help  to  her,"  he  went  on. 
"He  knew  many  of  the  most  famous  musical  people 
in  town,  and  it  was  really  through  him  that  Agnes 
was  to  make  her  debut  with  the  Philharmonic." 

"And  now?"  I  asked. 

The  old  man  looked  up  in  much  surprise  at  my 
question.  "Now?"  he  repeated.  "She  says  she  will 
never  play  again.  She  says  that  her  love  for  her 
violin  died  with  him.  But  she  is  young,  you  know, 
and  I  think  that  in  time  she  may  find  a  certain  con- 
solation in  her  music.  It  was  the  same  with  me.  I, 
too,  put  away  my  music,  but  the  time  came  when 
our  wants  forced  me  to  take  it  up  again." 

The  old  man  raised  his  glass  and  looked  down 
32 


EVERYMAN'S    RIDDLE 

into  the  dark  red-colored  wine.  "But  I  don't  think 
the  music  was  ever  quite  the  same." 

It  seemed  to  me  that  Mr.  Beach  had  said  all  that 
he  had  wished  to  say  to  me,  and  so  I  rose  to  go.  It 
was  at  this  moment  that  I  remembered  that  the  torn 
page  from  the  supplement  was  still  in  my  pocket. 

"Do  you  think  it  would  be  possible,"  I  asked,  "to 
see  your  daughter  again  for  a  moment  ?" 

"You  will  find  that  she  is  still  in  the  sitting-room, 
I  am  sure,"  he  said. 

As  I  went  up  the  stairway  again,  but  this  time 
alone,  I  took  out  the  half -page  of  the  newspaper  and 
carefully  tearing  off  the  part  containing  the  picture 
of  Miss  Beach,  put  the  rest  back  in  my  pocket.  I 
found  her  standing  at  the  piano,  and  as  I  entered  she 
looked  up  at  me,  dry-eyed,  and  with  almost  a  smile 
of  welcome  on  her  lips. 

"I  know  you'll  pardon  me,"  I  said,  "but  I  had 
very  nearly  forgotten  the  real  object  of  my  visit;  1 
wanted  to  give  you  this  piece  of  paper.  Just  before 
his  death  I  saw  him  take  it  from  his  pocket  and  look 
at  it.  It  was  the  last  face  he  ever  saw — his  last 
thoughts  were  of  her." 

33 


THE    STAGE    DOOR 

The  girl  took  the  torn  piece  of  paper  from  my 
hand,  but  she  did  not  look  at  it.  There  was  surely 
no  doubt  in  her  mind  who  was  the  original  of  the 
portrait. 

I  found  the  two  old  men  waiting  for  me  in  the  hall- 
way downstairs.  We  saluted  each  other  gravely  and 
parted  with  proper  ceremony.  The  door  closed 
noiselessly  behind  me  as  I  walked  slowly  down  the 
steps  and  stopped  irresolutely  on  the  curbstone. 
Directly  across  the  street  there  was  a  cheap  French 
restaurant.  Through  the  open  window  I  saw  two 
young  men  playing  dominoes  at  a  marble  table, 
and  a  waiter  with  a  dirty  apron  leaning  over  the 
counter  smiling  at  the  woman  cashier.  Everything, 
after  those  two  old  men  and  the  girl  in  black  whom  I 
had  just  left,  seemed  so  soiled  and  unworthy.  I  took 
out  of  my  pocket  all  there  remained  of  the  half -page 
of  the  supplement,  tore  it  into  small  pieces,  and  threw 
it  into  the  dirty  street.  So  far  as  I  was  concerned, 
there  was  an  end  to  it  and  I  knew  no  more  than  I 
had  two  days  before.  Perhaps  the  young  girl  in  the 
old  house  back  of  me  was  right,  and  there  could  only 
have  been  one  thought  in  Musgrove's  mind,  and 

34 


EVERYMAN'S    RIDDLE 

that  was  of  her.  But  it  may  have  been  that  he  looked 
last  at  the  portrait  of  Madame  Helma,  whose  world- 
wide fame  he  envied  so,  or  perhaps  it  was  that  of 
Miss  Kimball,  of  the  Cockatoo  chorus,  whose  physi- 
cal beauty  he  had  evidently,  too,  admired  very 
greatly.  And  as  I  started  to  retrace  my  steps  along 
the  dingy  streets  on  my  way  back  to  the  lights  of 
Broadway,  I  wondered,  too,  whether  he  had  thrown 
that  paper  away  because  he  was  ashamed  to  die  with 
it,  or  was  it  out  of  thoughtfulness  for  the  fair  name  of 
some  woman. 


35 


"BEAUTY"    KERRIGAN 


"BEAUTY'     KERRIGAN 

AS  the  old  man  reached  the  doorway  of  the  burning 
building,  the  woman  threw  herself  upon  him  and, 
seizing  him  by  the  shoulders,  wheeled  him  back  tow- 
ard her. 

"I  tell  you  they're  not  in  the  flat,"  she  shrieked 
above  the  roar  of  the  flames.  "Katie  told  me  she  was 
goin'  across  the  hall  to  the  Cassidys." 

The  old  man  stood  staring  at  his  wife  with  his 
mouth  wide  open  and  his  arms  hanging  impotently 
in  front  of  him.  "I  thought  they  was  to  home,"  he 
mumbled — "honest,  I  thought  they  was  to  home." 

Kerrigan  picked  his  way  over  the  network  of  hose 
to  the  old  couple,  and  shaking  the  man,  tried  to 
rouse  him  from  his  stupor.  "What's  up?"  he  asked 
briskly. 

The  old  man,  with  wide  frightened  eyes,  looked  up 
at  the  young  one,  but  his  tongue  refused  to  move,  so 
he  raised  both  arms  and  waved  them  toward  the 

39 


THE    STAGE    DOOR 

burning  tenement.  But  it  was  different  with  the 
woman.  There  was  an  assurance  in  Kerrigan's  man- 
ner, and  a  certain  eagerness  in  his  eyes,  that  made  her 
believe  him  to  be  some  one  in  authority,  and  so  she 
seized  him  by  the  broad  shoulders  and  pulled  him 
down  to  her,  so  that  she  could  shout  in  his  ear.  "My 
kids  are  in  there — they'll  be  burned  alive.  The  old 
man  told  the  fireman  they  was  in  the  third  floor 
front,  but  I  know  they  was  at  Cassidy's  across  the 
hall  in  the  rear  building." 

Kerrigan  stepped  back  and  looked  up  at  the  high 
tenement  with  its  gridiron  of  iron  fire-escapes.  The 
upper  stories  were  shut  out  now  by  clouds  of  heavy 
black  smoke,  but  the  windows  of  the  second  and 
third  stories  flared  up  like  the  open  doors  of  a  blast 
furnace.  Above  the  confused  din  of  shouting  fire- 
men, the  hissing  shriek  of  escaping  steam,  the  clang- 
ing of  bells  from  the  third-alarm  engines,  and  the 
warning  cries  of  the  crowd,  there  arose  the  continuous 
roar  and  the  sharp  crackle  of  unconquered  flames. 
A  hose  burst  almost  at  Kerrigan's  feet  and  the  sting 
of  the  cold  water  in  his  face  once  more  stirred  him 
into  action. 

40 


'BEAUTY'      KERRIGAN 

He  seized  the  old  woman  and  put  his  mouth  to 
her  ear.  "The  third  floor  back?"  he  shouted.  The 
woman  nodded  her  head  at  him,  and  then  in  her 
frenzy  turned  to  the  crowds  pressing  against  the 
ropes.  "For  God's  sake,"  she  shrieked,  "won't 
somebody  tell  those  firemen  about  my  kids!"  A  pass- 
ing fireman  stopped  at  the  woman's  cry.  "Have  you 
got  kids  in  there?"  he  asked.  The  old  woman  only 
shook  her  head  and  with  her  arms  beat  the  air  in  the 
direction  of  the  flames. 

"Well,  you  got  to  get  out  of  this,"  the  man  said; 
"that  wall  is  liable  to  go  any  time  now.  The  roof's 
gone  and  the  floors  are  givin'  away  already."  With 
both  hands  he  half  led,  half  dragged  the  old  couple 
away  from  the  building,  and  with  the  aid  of  a  police- 
man finally  forced  them  behind  the  ropes. 

In  the  meantime  Kerrigan  stood  looking  into  the 
open  doorway  of  the  burning  tenement.  The  fire  had 
not  yet  reached  the  lower  floor,  and  it  was  quite  pos- 
sible that  he  could  find  the  fireman  who  had  gone  for 
the  children  and  tell  them  that  they  were  in  the  back 
of  the  house.  The  front  of  the  building  was  a  raging 
furnace,  but  there  was  a  slight  chance  that  it  might 

41 


THE    STAGE    DOOR 

be  better  in  the  rear.  For  a  moment  he  hesitated, 
then  he  pulled  his  hat  down  hard  and  ran  for  the 
open  doorway.  Inside  there  was  a  pale  gray  smoke 
that  smarted  his  eyes,  and  so  he  shut  them  tight  and 
promptly  fell  over  a  hose.  He  knew  that  this  must 
lead  him  to  the  firemen,  and  so  with  one  hand  on  the 
throbbing  rubber  and  the  other  one  feeling  against 
the  wall,  he  groped  his  way  along  the  narrow  hall- 
way. Half-way  down  the  passage  he  found  the  stair- 
way. The  smoke  was  much  thicker  here  and  the 
roar  of  the  flames  and  the  crackling  of  the  timber 
overhead  was  quite  deafening,  but  the  hose  led  him 
on  up  the  winding  staircase.  For  a  moment  Kerri- 
gan opened  his  eyes  and  through  a  rift  in  the  smoke 
lie  was  almost  sure  that  he  saw  the  outline  of  a  figure 
at  the  next  landing.  He  clutched  the  banisters  with 
both  hands  and  called  aloud,  but  his  voice  seemed 
to  have  lost  all  of  its  power,  his  eyes  smarted  terribly, 
and  the  awful  heat  was  becoming  unbearable. 

Outside  in  the  sunlit  streets  a  half-grown  girl 
pushed  and  fought  her  way  through  the  dense  crowd 
of  onlookers  massed  behind  the  fire  lines.  "Mother!" 
she  shrieked  to  the  old  woman,  who  was  still  calling 

42 


'BEAUTY'      KERRIGAN 

on  some  one  to  rescue  her  children.  "Mother,  shut 
up,  won't  you — the  kids  are  over  to  Myer's  drug 
store." 

"Glory  be  to  God,"  whispered  the  old  woman  and 
doubled  up  over  the  rope  in  front  of  her.  And  as  she 
did  so  the  upper  half  of  the  front  wall  of  the  burning 
building  wavered,  while  the  crowd  shouted  its  warn- 
ing and  the  grimy,  rubber-coated  firemen  raced 
toward  the  crowd  for  safety.  For  a  moment  the 
great  wall  of  brick  and  iron  ladders  staggered  in  mid- 
air and  then  with  a  sullen  roar  fell  backward  and 
crashed  its  way  through  the  burning  floors. 

The  lights  had  already  begun  to  twinkle  in  the 
skyscrapers  when  the  four  men  gathered  about  the 
city  desk  that  night  and  talked  of  the  Canal  Street 
fire  and  the  past,  the  present  and  the  future  of 
"Beauty"  Kerrigan.  Through  the  open  windows 
there  came  from  the  park  below  the  shrill  cries  of 
the  newsboys,  the  rumble  of  the  elevated  trains  and 
the  rush  of  many  hurrying  footsteps.  The  tall  build- 
ing trembled  slightly  and  then  settled  to  the  cease- 
less throbbing  of  the  presses  down  in  the  basement 

43 


THE    STAGE    DOOR 

throwing  out  the  night  edition.  The  City  Editor  shut 
his  watch  with  a  noisy  click.  "It  won't  do,"  he  said 
— "it  won't  do.  We've  got  to  get  this  paper  out  earlier 
or  get  out  ourselves.  Did  any  of  you  see  Kerrigan  ?" 

"  I  saw  what  was  left  of  '  Beauty '  under  a  blanket 
on  the  way  to  the  ambulance,"  The  Cub  volunteered. 
"He  was  all  covered  up.  Fielding  was  with  him, 
though;  took  him  to  the  hospital,  I  guess,  while  I 
was  chasing  the  old  woman  that  thought  her  kids 
were  in  the  building.  That  wide-eyed  boy  that  re- 
ports fires  and  conventions  for  the  Tribune  told  me 
that  was  what  took  'Beauty'  into  the  house — to  tell 
the  firemen  where  the  kids  were." 

"That's  just  like  Kerrigan,"  the  Copy  Reader 
interrupted.  "With  every  respect  to  a  man  in  the 
hospital  '  Beauty '  certainly  had  a  high  regard  for  the 
limelight.  He  ought  to  have  been  an  actor." 

The  City  Editor  put  his  feet  on  the  desk  and  clasp- 
ing his  hands  behind  his  head,  looked  up  at  the  cob- 
webbed  ceiling.  "I  liked  Kerrigan,"  he  said.  "I 
know  what  you  mean,  but  he'd  been  called  a  Greek 
God  so  long  and  so  often  that  he  began  to  believe  he 
was  a  little  differently  made  from  the  rest  of  us.  What- 

44 


'BEAUTY'      KERRIGAN 

ever  happens  to  him  it  happened  while  he  was  trying 
to  save  a  couple  of  kids  he  never  saw.  You  can't  take 
that  away  from  him." 

"I  tell  you,  boys,"  interrupted  the  Sporting  Edi- 
tor, "you're  all  in  wrong.  He  wasn't  stuck  on  him- 
self, but  he  loved  health  and  condition  just  as  any  of 
you  love  a  piece  of  mince  pie.  He'd  played  on  that 
Western  college  ball  team  of  his  for  four  years,  and 
the  football  team,  too,  and  he'd  kept  himself  hard 
ever  since.  He  didn't  smoke  and  he  didn't  drink,  but 
that  didn't  make  him  any  the  less  of  a  man.  He  was 
no  more  stuck  on  his  Greek  head  than  you  are  on 
yours,  but  he  did  believe  a  man's  body  is  a  nice  bit  of 
machinery  to  take  care  of,  not  a  receptacle  for  every 
violet-colored  liqueur  that  comes  from  Paris,  France. 
I  tell  you  I  know  the  boy." 

"All  right,"  said  the  Copy  Reader,  "but  not  for 
mine.  His  friend  Fielding,  that  thinks  so  much  of  him, 
is  worth  two  of  'Beauty,'  and  can  write  better  stuff 
with  his  left  hand.  I  know,  because  I  read  all  they 
write." 

The  City  Editor  continued  to  look  up  at  the  ceil- 
ing. "Kerrigan  was  a  little  up  in  the  air  sometimes," 

45 


THE    STAGE    DOOR 

he  said;  "he  was  a  bad  reporter  and  Fielding  is  a 
good  man — that  is,  to  get  facts.  Kerrigan  had  too 
much  imagination — he's  a  fiction  writer.  I'll  bet  you 
now  that  Bert  Fielding  will  be  a  reporter  when  Ker- 
rigan is  among  the  best  six  sellers — that  is,  if  he  lives." 

"Look  out!"  said  The  Cub— "here's  Fielding 
now." 

A  young  man  came  into  the  office,  walked  over  to 
a  desk  and  picked  up  some  letters  and  then  joined 
the  four  men. 

"How's  'Beauty'?"  asked  the  City  Editor. 

Fielding  sat  on  a  desk  and  shook  his  head.  "Oh,  I 
don't  know — nobody  knows  anything — yet.  They 
wouldn't  let  me  see  him,  but  I  hear  he's  all  smashed 
up  and  burned,  too,  terribly.  We've  got  to  wait — 
that's  all."  Fielding  clasped  his  hands  together  and 
pressed  them  between  his  knees.  Then  he  looked 
slowly  about  him  at  each  of  the  four  men  in  turn. 
"  I  tell  you,  it's  hell  to  see  those  young  doctors  at  the 
hospital  standing  around  there  smiling  and  so  cool 
in  their  damned  white  suits  and  not  able  to  do  any- 
thing. They're  all  right,  I  guess,  but  the  worst  of  it  is 
I  can't  do  anything." 

46 


'BEAUTY'      KERRIGAN 

"I  suppose — I  suppose  they'll  make  him  com- 
fortable," The  Cub  suggested.  Fielding  nodded. 
"That's  all  right — Kerry  has  a  little  money  of  his 
own." 

"Isn't  there  some  one  we  ought  to  send  for?" 
asked  the  City  Editor. 

Fielding  brushed  his  sleeve  sharply  across  his  eyes. 
"Not  that  I  know  of,"  he  said.  "I've  lived  with  him 
for  five  years  and  he  never  mentioned  any  relatives 
to  me.  He's  alone  just  like  I  am." 

The  City  Editor  got  up  and  laid  his  hand  on 
Fielding's  shoulder.  "Try  to  take  it  easy,  old  man," 
he  said.  "It  may  all  come  out  right.  Better  go  now 
and  have  a  little  dinner  with  us." 

Fielding  put  out  his  hand  and  turned  away  his 
head.  "Thank  you,  but  not  now.  I  said  I'd  call  up 
the  hospital  a  little  later.  They  seemed  to  think  they 
might  know  something  then." 

The  four  men  gathered  about  him  and  each  in  his 
own  way  tried  to  show  his  sympathy,  and  then  they  said 
good-night  and  left  him  sitting  alone  in  the  deserted 
room.  For  some  moments  he  sat  swinging  his  legs  on 
the  desk  and  looking  wide-eyed  out  into  space.  Then 

47 


THE    STAGE    DOOR 

he  pulled  himself  together  and  went  over  to  the  open 
window.  There  was  the  scent  of  the  early  spring  in 
the  air  and  a  few  silver  stars  were  twinkling  through 
the  purple  sky.  Fielding  looked  up  at  the  stars  and 
shook  his  head.  "But  why  'Beauty'  Kerrigan,"  he 
asked,  "of  all  the  men  in  the  world — why  'Beauty'  ? 
Life  and  health  and  good  looks  meant  so  much  more 
to  him  than  the  rest  of  us.  Just  suppose  You  should 
let  him  live — just  suppose  that?" 

It  was  late  one  evening  the  following  June  when 
Fielding  led  a  muffled  figure  through  the  long  corri- 
dors of  the  hospital  to  the  cab  waiting  on  the  hot, 
deserted  street.  Broken  and  twisted  and  scarred, 
Kerrigan,  even  with  the  help  of  a  cane  and  his 
friend's  arm,  shuffled  along  but  slowly  and  with 
much  effort.  Before  they  started  on  that  long,  por- 
tentous journey  of  two  hours,  Fielding  had  received 
his  final  instructions  in  the  private  office  of  the  head 
doctor. 

"Internally,"  said  the  little  great  man,  carefully 
weighing  each  word,  "he  is  as  well  as  you  or  I — he 
may  outlive  either  or  both  of  us.  You  understand  it 
is  just  as  if  you  had  smashed  the  case  of  a  beautiful 

48 


'BEAUTY'      KERRIGAN 

watch,  but  the  works  had  been  left  unimpaired.  I 
think  he  had  the  best  frame  and  the  best  constitution 
I  ever  met  with  in  a  long  practice — of  course,  it  was 
these  that  pulled  him  through.  What  he  will  need 
now,  and  you  must  try  very  hard  to  help  him  to  it,  is 
courage — always  courage.  Courage  to  look  into  a 
mirror — courage  to  forget.  And,  above  all,  try  to 
keep  up  his  interest  in  things  and  make  him  work, 
work  continuously — the  more  the  better." 

"I  understand,  doctor,"  said  Fielding,  "and  I'll 
try  very  hard."  Then  he  found  his  friend  and  to- 
gether they  started  on  their  journey. 

The  stars  were  out  and  a  young  silver  moon  hung 
over  them  when  they  reached  the  little  town  of  Pleas- 
ant Harbor.  John  Ferguson,  the  old  Scotchman,  who 
was  to  be  Kerrigan's  servant,  met  them  at  the  sta- 
tion and  drove  them  in  a  closed  carriage  to  the  home 
that  Fielding  had  prepared.  During  the  past  summer 
Kerrigan  and  Fielding  had  driven  from  the  hotel  in 
the  village  over  this  road  many  times,  and  on  just 
such  nights  as  this,  sometimes  alone,  when  they  al- 
ways planned  to  buy  the  white  farmhouse  for  their 
old  age;  and  more  often  they  had  driven  with  young 

49 


THE    STAGE    DOOR 

girls,  who  laughed  and  sang  with  them,  just  from  the 
animal  happiness  of  health  and  the  sheer  joy  of  living. 
They  found  Mary  Ferguson,  the  wife  of  John  Fer- 
guson, the  Scotchman,  standing  in  the  doorway,  her 
broad,  buxom  frame  silhouetted  against  the  square 
of  yellow  light  that  flooded  the  room  beyond.  It 
would  have  been  her  wish  to  have  followed  the  men 
into  the  long  low  sitting-room,  because  she  would 
have  liked  to  have  seen  their  pleasure  over  all  the 
beautiful  flowers  and  ferns  she  had  gathered  in  honor 
of  Kerrigan's  home-coming.  However,  she  did  not 
follow  the  two  friends,  who,  arm  in  arm,  entered  the 
house  alone.  For  a  few  moments  Kerrigan  stood 
resting  on  his  cane  and  looking  about  at  the  gray 
wall-paper,  with  its  delicate  tracing  of  yellow  flowers, 
at  the  bright  chintz  curtains  and  the  old  mahogany 
furniture,  all  newly  covered  in  green  leather,  and  the 
wood  shining  like  burnished  brass  in  the  orange  light 
of  the  shaded  lamps.  In  one  corner  of  the  room,  just 
by  the  window  that  looked  out  on  the  meadow  and 
the  river  beyond,  they  had  placed  a  broad  desk,  with 
all  Kerrigan's  writing  things  on  it,  and  besides  these 
a  great  bowl  of  crimson  ramblers.  The  desk  was 

50 


'BEAUTY'      KERRIGAN 

flanked  on  either  side  by  his  books,  and  in  the  pictures 
on  the  walls  he  found  none  but  old  friends. 

He  reached  out  his  hand  and  laid  it  on  Fielding's 
arm.  "It's  all  quite  wonderful,  Bert,"  he  said — 
"quite  wonderful,  just  like  sunshine — and  that's 
good,  because  you  see  this  room  is  my  whole  world 
now." 

And  this  as  events  turned  out  was  largely  true.  As 
the  long  days  passed  Kerrigan  seldom  left  the  house, 
and  then  only  very  late  in  the  evening,  when  Ferguson 
drove  him  in  a  closed  carriage  over  the  deep,  sandy 
roads.  Sometimes,  on  a  Saturday  night,  when  Field- 
ing had  come  down  to  stop  over  Sunday,  the  two 
friends  would  go  out  sailing  in  their  little  cat-boat, 
but  these  were  Kerrigan's  only  excursions  abroad. 
The  people  of  Pleasant  Harbor  had  never  seen  the 
mysterious  stranger  who  lived  in  the  old  farmhouse 
up  the  river,  and,  indeed,  so  long  as  he  paid  his  bills 
they  were  willing  to  forget  the  presence  of  their  neigh- 
bor, just  as  he  wished  to  be  forgotten.  The  children 
of  the  village,  however,  were  not  so  indifferent  to  the 
newcomer  and  chose  to  believe  that  the  only  occupant 
of  the  house,  besides  the  Scotchman  and  his  wife, 

51 


THE    STAGE    DOOR 

was  a  perfectly  well-defined  ghost.  They  spoke  of  the 
old  farmhouse  now  in  whispers,  and  called  it 
"haunted,"  and  always  ran  by  the  place  at  night, 
although  the  house  stood  far  back  from  the  road. 
To  prove  their  point,  they  told  of  how  a  mysterious 
crooked  figure  with  a  black  cloak  had  been  seen  sail- 
ing on  the  river,  and  at  other  times  huddled  in  the 
back  of  a  carriage,  and  how,  very  late  one  moonlight 
night,  the  same  cloaked,  crooked  figure  had  been 
discovered  wandering  over  the  golf  links  of  the 
"summer  folks"  and  occasionally  stopping  and 
making  curious  slow  motions  with  his  cane  in  the  air, 
just  as  a  real  ghost  would  do  were  he  playing  golf 
with  an  invisible  ball. 

The  Scotchman  went  to  the  post-office  for  the 
mail  every  morning  and  again  at  night,  and  some- 
times he  received  long  bulky  letters,  and  at  other 
times  small  thin  ones,  with  the  name  of  some  pub- 
lishing house  in  the  corner;  but  all  of  these  letters 
were  addressed  to  John  Ferguson.  The  accounts  at 
the  village  were  paid  by  checks  signed  by  the  same 
name,  and  later  on  the  name  of  John  Ferguson  began 
to  appear  as  an  occasional  contributor  in  the  better 

52 


'BEAUTY'      KERRIGAN 

class  of  magazines.  As  a  living  being,  "Beauty" 
Kerrigan  had  stepped  aside  the  day  of  the  Canal 
Street  tenement  fire  and  had  let  the  world  pass  on. 
As  a  human  being,  he  existed  only  for  Fielding  and 
his  two  servants;  as  a  writer,  he  was  slowly  gaining  a 
place  of  honorable  distinction,  but  the  tributes  to 
fame  that  he  had  envied  so  in  others,  the  tinsel  suc- 
cess that  he  had  hoped  and  worked  and  prayed  for  in 
his  youthful  days,  now  that  it  was  almost  within  his 
grasp,  could  never  be  his,  because  "Beauty"  Kerri- 
gan did  not  exist  in  the  eyes  of  the  world.  "My  home 
is  my  tomb,"  he  said  once,  and  he  believed  it.  To 
his  friend  he  spoke  but  little  of  his  work,  and  indeed 
Fielding  usually  read  it  for  the  first  time  when  it 
appeared  in  the  magazines  under  the  name  of  John 
Ferguson. 

But  late  in  the  spring  of  Kerrigan's  first  year  at 
Pleasant  Harbor,  he  told  Fielding  of  a  drama  he 
wanted  to  write.  To  be  the  author  of  a  successful 
play  had  always  been  his  ambition,  and  now  be  be- 
lieved that  it  was  time  to  move  on  toward  that  ac- 
complishment. He  had  the  scenario  well  mapped  out, 
even  the  minor  characters  had  taken  shape  and 

53 


THE    STAGE    DOOR 

character  in  his  mind,  and  he  had  already  written 
some  of  the  dialogue  for  the  "great"  scene  in  the 
second  act. 

And  so,  for  the  next  few  months,  Kerrigan  gave 
up  the  short  stories  and  the  special  articles  and  de- 
voted himself  to  his  drama.  Every  Sunday  he  would 
read  over  to  Fielding  his  week's  work,  and  his  friend, 
who  had  a  slight  practical  knowledge  of  the  stage, 
would  make  suggestions  and  revisions. 

In  the  early  fall  Fielding  carried  the  manuscript 
back  with  him  to  New  York  and  gave  it  to  the 
dramatic  editor  of  his  paper,  who,  he  knew,  could  at 
least  obtain  for  it  the  serious  consideration  of  the 
managers.  It  was  a  month  later  when  he  wired  to 
Kerrigan  one  morning  that  a  manager  had  made  an 
appointment  with  him  to  talk  over  the  play.  "It 
may  amount  to  nothing,"  he  said  at  the  end  of  his 
message,  "but  there  is  a  chance." 

The  manager  sat  behind  a  very  large  flat  desk  and 
divided  his  time  about  equally  between  talking  slowly 
and  silently  rolling  a  long  cigar  between  his  lips. 
The  well-thumbed  manuscript  of  the  play  lay  on  the 
desk  in  front  of  him,  and  during  the  conversation  he 

54 


'BEAUTY'      KERRIGAN 

occasionally  ran  a  paper-cutter  between  its  pages 
and  tapped  it  thoughtfully  on  the  blue  cover. 

"I  don't  want  to  produce  this  play,  very  much," 
he  said,  by  way  of  introduction,  "and  I  don't  say 
that  to  get  better  terms.  Personally,  I  don't  think 
there  is  any  money  in  it,  and  Miss  Carew,  who  wants 
to  play  it,  will  get  very  little  out  of  it  but  reputation, 
and  I  will  probably  lose  something.  I  don't  know 
who  the  author  is,  but  I  should  say  that  it  was  a  man, 
and  one  who  knew  very  little  of  the  stage — that  is, 
its  practical  side.  He  has  written  two  women  parts, 
of  almost  equal  strength,  and  that  is,  as  you  probably 
know,  almost  fatal.  But  Miss  Carew  wants  to  play 
the  part  of  'Ellen,'  and  I  know  why  she  wants  to 
play  it.  It  is  what  we  call  an  actor's  part — it  is  the 
sort  of  part  any  actress  would  enjoy  playing  before 
critics  or  at  a  professional  matinee.  And  about  the 
same  thing  might  be  said  about  the  'Millicent'  part. 
If  I  had  a  play  which  would  give  Miss  Carew  nearly 
as  good  a  chance  as  '  Ellen,'  and  still  have  the  popular 
element  in  it,  I  should  not  think  of  trying  your  piece, 
but  I  haven't.  I  candidly  don't  think  this  is  going  to 
be  popular,  but  it  is  not  an  expensive  play  to  put  on, 

55 


THE    STAGE    DOOR 

and  I  have  decided  to  take  a  chance.  I  will  give  you 
five  hundred  dollars  in  advance  and  five  per  cent,  on 
the  gross.  That  is  not  as  much  as  the  big  ones  get, 
but  I  imagine  the  author  is  a  beginner  and  he  could 
hardly  expect  more." 

Fielding  nodded.  "I  can  answer  for  the  author  that 
the  terms  will  be  all  right.  When  do  you  think  we  can 
get  a  production  ?" 

"At  once,"  said  the  manager,  briskly — "the 
sooner  the  better.  This  piece  Miss  Carew  is  playing 
now  won't  do  at  all.  I  should  like  to  begin  rehearsals 
immediately.  The  necessary  changes  can  be  made 
as  we  go  along.  Can  the  author  come  to  rehearsals  ?" 

Fielding  shook  his  head :  "  I'm  afraid  not,"  he  said. 

"Is  he  alive?" 

"Yes." 

"Faraway?" 

"No,  not  far,"  Fielding  said.  "It's  hard  to  ex- 
plain." 

"It's  hard  on  us,  too.  As  I  said  before,  the  play 
must  be  changed  in  a  number  of  places  to  be  effective. 
I  don't  want  to  give  the  good  lines  to  Miss  Carew 
and  weaken  the  other  parts,  because  we  have  both 

56 


'BEAUTY'      KERRIGAN 

agreed  that  this  can't  be  done;  but  I  must  have  the 
author's  help.  He  may  think  his  work  is  over,  but  if 
he  knew  more  about  this  business,  he  would  know 
that  it  has  just  begun.  I'm  sorry  to  insist,  but  I 
wouldn't  care  to  go  on  without  him.  It  would  mean 
calling  in  some  play-carpenter,  who  would  probably 
spoil  the  atmosphere  and  ruin  such  chances  as  the 
piece  has  now." 

"Very  good,"  said  Fielding,  "will  you  give  me 
until  to-morrow  noon  ?" 

"Sure — if  you  can  let  me  know  the  author's  an- 
swer then.  Come  in,  and  we  can  sign  the  contracts 
and  start  on  the  scenery  and  rehearsals  at  once. 
Good-day!" 

Fielding  did  not  wait  for  the  elevator,  but  went 
down  the  marble  stairway  two  steps  at  a  bound. 
Then  he  took  a  cab  for  the  ferry  and  a  half  hour  later 
was  on  the  express  for  Pleasant  Harbor.  He  found 
Kerrigan  waiting  for  him  in  the  sitting-room.  "It's 
all  right!"  he  cried,  "it's  all  right!  You're  going  to 
get  the  production.  Miss  Carew  is  going  to  do  it  as 
soon  as  they  can  get  ready.  Just  think  of  it,  your  first 
play  and  to  be  done  on  Broadway — it's  wonderful!" 

57 


THE    STAGE    DOOR 

Kerrigan  stood  looking  at  him  from  across  the 
room  as  if  he  could  not  quite  comprehend  the  full 
extent  of  the  fortune  that  had  come  to  him.  Then  he 
limped  over  to  the  door  with  the  little  window  and 
looked  out  on  the  river.  Since  the  first  days  when  he 
had  begun  to  write  for  his  college  paper,  he  had 
looked  forward  to  this  moment.  To  write  a  play  and 
have  it  produced  in  New  York  by  a  successful  star 
had  always  seemed  to  him  the  greatest  happiness 
that  could  come  to  any  man.  The  amount  of  money 
he  might  thus  earn  had  hardly  occurred  to  him — it 
was  the  fame  he  courted.  It  was  the  cry  of  "author" 
he  craved — the  lights  and  the  excitement  and  the 
thrill  of  facing  that  great  critical  audience  across  the 
footlights.  And  now  it  had  all  come  true,  this  dream 
of  the  days  of  his  youth  and  health.  It  would  all  hap- 
pen just  as  he  had  planned  and  hoped,  but  he  would 
not  sit  in  the  stage  box  and  he  would  not  make  the 
speech  before  the  curtain  after  the  "big"  scene  in 
the  second  act.  Instead  he  would  look  out  on  the 
river  that  night  from  this  little  room  of  his,  and  he 
would  be  quite  alone. 

Fielding  knew  as  well  all  that  was  passing  in  Ker- 
58 


"BEAUTY'      KERRIGAN 

rigan's  mind  as  if  his  friend  had  been  speaking  aloud 
to  him.  And  so  he  waited  until  the  cripple  shuffled 
over  to  his  deep  leather  chair  by  the  hearth. 

"And  I  got  pretty  good  terms,  too,  I  think, 
Kerry,"  he  said — "five  hundred  in  advance!" 

Kerrigan  nodded,  and  for  some  moments  the  two 
men  sat  looking  at  the  burning  logs  on  the  broad 
hearth. 

"But  there  is  one  thing,"  Fielding  said  at  last, 
"that  worries  me  a  good  deal.  Bronson  says  there 
must  be  some  trifling  changes  made  at  rehearsal.  It 
seems  there  are  certain  places  where  the  play  is  not 
quite  right — that  is,  not  practical." 

Kerrigan  nodded.  "Of  course,  of  course,  I  ex- 
pected that,  but  I  can  make  the  changes  down  here." 

For  a  moment  Fielding  hesitated.  "I'm  sorry, 
Kerry,"  he  said,  "but  Bronson  insists  that  the  author 
must  come  up  to  town  and  work  with  him.  He  prac- 
tically makes  it  a  condition  if  he  accepts  the  play." 

Kerrigan  looked  at  Fielding,  but  apparently  with 
unseeing  eyes.  "It's  too  bad!"  he  said.  "I  should 
like  very  much  to  have  had  the  production."  For  a 
long  time  the  only  sound  in  the  room  came  from  the 

59 


THE    STAGE    DOOR 

crackle  of  the  logs,  and  then  Kerrigan  put  out  his 
hand  and  laid  it  gently  on  Fielding's  arm  and  looked 
him  in  the  eyes.  "Won't  you  go  for  me?  You 
understand — be  the  author." 

Fielding  looked  at  his  friend  and  smiled,  and  then 
stretched  his  arms  above  his  head.  "Why,  Kerry,"  he 
said,  "you  know  I  couldn't  do  that,  not  even  for  you! 
Anything  you  can  ask  of  me  but  that!" 

"I  understand,"  Kerrigan  said,  "but  who  else  is 
there  ?  You  are  the  only  person  who  knows  what  the 
play  means  and  how  it  ought  to  be  played.  You  could 
come  down  here  at  night  and  we  could  make  the 
changes  together,  and  write  in  any  new  scenes  or 
speeches  they  needed.  You  can  be' John  Ferguson 'as 
well  as  I — and  it's  only  to  a  few  people.  You  know  you 
had  a  lot  to  do  with  the  play,  as  it  is.  You  were  such 
a  help — won't  you  go  on  with  it,  please?"  Kerrigan 
slipped  slowly  back  into  his  deep  chair  and  looked  at 
the  flames  and  waited. 

Fielding  sat  with  his  arms  tightly  folded  across  his 
breast  and  staring  up  at  a  portrait  over  the  hearth. 
Then  his  eyes  turned  to  the  bent  figure  lying  in  the 
chair  at  his  side.  "All  right,  Kerry,"  he  said,  "that's 

60 


'BEAUTY'      KERRIGAN 

all  right;  I'll  be  the  author — 'John  Ferguson' — for 
a  few  weeks." 


The  rehearsals  of  the  new  play — "The  Interpre- 
ter," by  John  Ferguson — had  been  going  on  for  about 
a  week,  when  Miss  Carew  called,  by  appointment,  at 
the  office  of  her  manager. 

"What  do  you  think?"  Bronson  asked  abruptly. 

Miss  Carew  pursed  her  pretty  lips  and  frowned 
thoughtfully  at  the  tip  of  her  patent-leather  boot.  "I 
think  it's  all  right,"  she  said.  "I  don't  believe  there  is 
a  possibility  of  its  not  making  a  success — that  is  in 
an  artistic  way;  it's  a  beautiful  play.  The  critics  will 
like  it — nobody  knows  what  the  public  is  going  to  do. 
It  may  be  a  little  sad  for  them,  but  it  seems  to  me 
there  is  a  tremendous  human  appeal  in  it,  especially 
in  the  part  of  '  Millicent.' " 

"I  know  that — that's  why  I  sent  for  you.  You 
remember  I  told  you." 

Miss  Carew  nodded  at  Bronson  and  smiled.  "I 
know  you  did,"  she  said.  "Where  did  you  get  her? 
I  heard  her  say  she'd  never  been  on  Broadway." 

Bronson  could  not  restrain  a  broad  smile  of  self- 
61 


THE    STAGE    DOOR 

appreciation.  "I  heard  about  her  work  and  her  good 
looks  when  she  was  here  at  a  dramatic  school.  I  didn't 
take  much  stock  in  it,  but  I  went  to  see  her  at  one  of 
their  performances  and  signed  her  up  the  same  after- 
noon. Then  I  sent  her  out  West  to  do  one-night 
stands.  I  got  her  to  go  in  stock  at  Kansas  City  all 
last  summer  and  let  her  stay  there  till  this  came 
along.  But  I  can  take  her  out  yet  if  you  say  so. 
She's  young  enough  to  wait,  and  you  know  I'm 
always  ready  to  protect  your  interests.  Speak  up  if 
you  want  me  to  get  some  one  else — not  quite  so 
strong." 

Miss  Carew  shook  her  head.  "That's  all  right," 
she  said,  and  held  out  a  white-gloved  hand.  "I  don't 
mind  if .  the  play  makes  a  hit — besides  I  need  the 
money." 

Bronson  bustled  out  of  his  swivel  chair  and  patted 
his  star  affectionately  on  the  back.  "You're  a  good 
girl,  Blanche,"  he  said,  and  taking  her  arm  started 
her  to  ward  the  door,  "you're  a  good  girl."  Miss  Carew 
stopped  in  the  doorway  and  smiled  over  her  shoulder 
at  the  manager,  who  had  returned  to  his  desk  and 
was  puffing  great  clouds  of  smoke  from  a  freshly  lit 

62 


'BEAUTY'      KERRIGAN 

cigar.  "You  got  through  that  a  good  deal  better  than 
you  expected,"  she  called,  "didn't  you?" 

"A  good  deal  better,"  he  said,  laughing,  "a  good 
deal  better!" 

Fielding  had  obtained  a  leave  of  absence  from  his 
paper  for  three  weeks,  and  during  the  morning  and 
afternoon  hours  he  sat  down  in  front  at  Bronson's 
favorite  theatre  and  watched  the  rehearsals  of  the 
play  of  which  he  was  supposed  to  be  the  author.  He 
saw  it  grow  and  develop  and  become  a  perfect  whole; 
he  saw  actors  and  actresses  who  began  by  stumbling 
through  their  lines,  gradually  grow  into  the  men  and 
women  that  Kerrigan  in  his  little  room  at  Pleasant 
Harbor  had  bred,  and  to  whom  he  had  given  minds 
and  souls  and  human  passions.  For  the  most  part 
Fielding  sat  in  the  deserted  orchestra,  but  sometimes 
he  went  back  on  the  stage  and  told  some  particular 
player  just  what  a  line  or  a  situation  meant,  and 
often  they  sought  him  out  and  asked  for  his  advice. 
But  the  girl  who  probably  needed  his  help  the  least, 
and  yet  to  whom  he  went  and  who  came  to  him  the 
most  often,  was  the  girl  who  played  "Millicent,"  and 

63 


THE    STAGE    DOOR 

who,  as  the  character-man  said  when  the  rehearsals 
first  began,  was  going  to  "score,  and  score  good." 

Even  to  the  unpracticed  eye  of  Fielding  there  was 
not  much  in  common  between  this  young  girl,  this 
Ruth  Emery,  and  her  fellow  players.  The  ways  of 
the  stage-folk  were  not  yet  her  ways.  She  seemed  to 
have  acquired  all  the  ambition  and  hope  that  had 
long  since  been  crushed  out  of  their  lives  by  years  of 
hard  toil,  and  for  which  they  had  earned  so  little  of 
honor  or  accomplishment. 

"She's  wonderful!"  he  said  to  Kerrigan  one  night 
after  a  long  day  of  rehearsing — "she's  quite  wonder- 
ful !  They  all  run  about  and  shout  at  her  and  she  just 
goes  on  being  'Millicent.'  I  could  stand  it  all  if  you 
could  only  see  her  that  first  night.  We  go  out  to  a  little 
place  around  the  corner  every  day  now  for  lunch  to- 
gether and  she  never  talks  of  anything  but  the  play." 
Kerrigan  smiled.  "And  the  playwright?"  he  asked. 

"Oh,  you  don't  understand,  Kerry,  really  you 
don't.  She  doesn't  care  about  men,  especially  me. 
It's  just  the  play.  You  know  it's  a  great  chance  for 
a  young  girl.  She's  really  helped  me  with  suggestions 
more  than  I  have  her." 

64 


'BEAUTY'      KERRIGAN 

"  Is  she — is  she  pretty  ?  " 

"  Pretty  ?  She's  a  wonder — not  like  anybody  you 
ever  saw.  She  promised  to  bring  me  some  photo- 
graphs to-morrow.  I  knew  you  would  want  to  see 
how  she  looked,  so  I'll  bring  them  down  to-morrow 
night." 

"And  Miss  Carew?" 

"Fine — really  splendid,  but  she's  different,  that's 
all!" 

"Good-night!"  Kerrigan  said.  "Good-night,  old 
man.  I  was  sure  something  would  make  you  forgive 
me  for  making  you  a  playwright.  I  didn't  know  it 
would  be  Miss  Emery,  but  it's  all  right  so  long  as 
you're  happy.  Don't  forget  the  photographs." 

And  Fielding,  true  to  his  promise,  did  not  forget 
the  photographs,  but  brought  them  down  the  next 
night,  and,  to  the  exclusion  of  many  old  friends,  they 
were  given  the  places  of  honor  in  the  little  white  cot- 
tage. On  the  very  large  photograph  there  was  written : 
"To  the  Author  of  'The  Interpreter'  with  the  sincere 
appreciation  of  Ruth  Emery,"  and  this  was  placed 
on  the  mantel  over  the  fireplace;  the  smaller  picture 
bore  the  one  word — "Ruth" — and  this  was,  by  mu- 

65 


THE    STAGE    DOOR 

tual  consent,  carried  to  Fielding's  own  room  under 
the  rafters. 

For  Fielding  those  three  weeks  of  rehearsal  were 
three  weeks  of  the  most  intense  excitement  and  of  a 
complete  happiness  he  had  ever  known.  He  watched 
with  increasing  anxiety  the  play  reach  the  point 
where  it  was  only  necessary  to  add  the  finishing 
touches  and  to  work  on  the  most  exacting  scenes. 
He  looked  on  at  the  making  of  the  properties,  the 
arrangement  of  the  lights  and  the  building  of  the 
scenery,  and  every  morning  and  evening  he  searched 
eagerly  for  the  preliminary  notices  as  they  gradually 
crept  into  the  newspapers.  Every  afternoon  he  took 
a  late  train  to  Pleasant  Harbor,  and  once  there  it  was 
necessary  to  tell  Kerrigan  all  that  had  taken  place  at 
rehearsal,  what  every  one  had  said  and  done,  and 
what  he  thought  every  one  had  thought  of  his  or  her 
lines  and  the  play.  And  then  after  dinner  they  worked 
on  the  changes  which  Bronson  thought  necessary. 
Kerrigan  sat  at  his  desk  and  made  notes,  and  Field- 
ing stalked  about  the  floor,  and  by  reading  the  old 
lines  and  the  new  tried  to  show  how  it  would  appear 
on  the  stage.  Sometimes  they  worked  for  an  hour  or 

66 


'BEAUTY'      KERRIGAN 

two  and  sometimes  until  far  into  the  morning.  Sev- 
eral times  they  had  written  and  talked  until  the  sun 
rose,  and  it  really  seemed  hardly  worth  while  for 
Fielding  to  go  to  bed  at  all,  so  little  time  remained 
before  his  breakfast  and  the  early  train  to  town. 
And  through  all  this  there  was  always  the  thought 
of  the  girl  who  had  come  into  his  life,  with  her  clear, 
clean  mind  and  her  flower-like  beauty,  and  who  had 
dragged  him  out  of  the  mental  rut  of  indifference 
and  indolence  into  which  he  had  gradually  fallen. 
And  with  the  picture  of  the  girl  in  his  mind  and  the 
gratitude  in  his  heart  for  all  he  owed  her,  there  was 
always  that  other  thought — the  thought  that  he  was 
not  the  real  "  John  Ferguson,"  that  he  was  deceiving 
her.  It  may  have  been  a  deception  inspired  by  gen- 
erosity— Kerrigan  had  called  it  a  sacrifice — but 
whatever  Fielding  had  won  from  the  girl  he  had  won 
under  false  colors,  and  he  knew  it  and  suffered  for  it. 
The  dress  rehearsal  was  to  take  place  on  the 
Sunday  night  preceding  the  first  performance,  and 
Fielding  had  gone  down  to  pass  the  early  part  of  the 
day  at  Pleasant  Harbor.  They  had  spent  the  morning 
together  going  over  the  newspapers  and  cutting  out 

67 


THE    STAGE    DOOR 

the  notices  from  the  amusement  columns.  "We  had 
better  save  these,"  Kerrigan  said,  laughing.  "We  may 
never  get  any  more  for  our  scrap-book!" 

"I  don't  know — I  don't  know,"  Fielding  said, 
stopping  in  his  tramp  up  and  down  the  room.  "I'm 
terribly  confused.  Sometimes  I  think  it  is  going  to  be 
a  great  success,  and  then  something  goes  wrong  at  re- 
hearsal and  it  all  seems  hopeless.  If  it  weren't  for 
Miss  Emery — not  only  for  her  performance — but  she 
does  so  much  to  encourage  me  and  keep  me  going, 
and  helps  me  so  in  secretly  showing  me  how  to  help 
the  others.  It  is  just  intelligence  against  a  bag  of 
tricks.  She  comes  with  a  new  brain,  fresh  and  clear, 
while  the  heads  of  the  rest  of  them  are  filled  with  a 
thousand  parts  they  have  played  or  wanted  to  play, 
and  overburdened  with  every  old  tradition  of  the 
stage  from  Shakespeare  down  to  Belasco.  As  Bron- 
son  said  to  me  the  other  day  after  Ruth's  scene  in  the 
first  act,  '  It  will  be  such  a  pity  when  that  girl  learns 
how  to  act.'  I  tell  you,  Kerry,  you  don't  know  what 
she  has  done  for  that  play  of  yours ! " 

Kerrigan  was  looking  up  at  the  girl's  photograph 
over  the  mirror.  "Yes,"  he  said  slowly, "  I  think  I  do, 

68 


'BEAUTY'      KERRIGAN 

and  when  it's  all  over  I  want  you  to  thank  her  for 
me,  whether  the  play  is  a  success  or  a  failure — thank 
her  as  I  would  have  thanked  her." 

The  audience  that  filled  the  theatre  on  the  first 
night  of  "The  Interpreter"  was,  in  all  ways,  worthy 
of  Miss  Carew's  position  as  an  actress  and  the  repu- 
tation of  the  players  with  whom  Bronson  had  sur- 
rounded her.  At  the  end  of  the  first  act  the  men  in  the 
lobbies  and  those  who  remained  to  visit  their  friends 
in  the  orchestra  stalls  and  the  boxes  agreed  that  Mr. 
John  Ferguson,  whoever  he  might  be,  had  appar- 
ently written  a  fine  play,  that  Miss  Carew  was  at  her 
best  and  that  Miss  Ruth  Emery  was  a  distinct  "find " 
for  Bronson,  the  manager.  When  the  curtain  came 
down  on  the  "big"  scene  in  the  second  act,  the  play 
had,  beyond  question,  scored  a  success  and  Miss 
Emery  little  less  than  a  triumph.  There  were  many 
curtain  calls  and  the  proper  acknowledgment  from 
the  company,  and  mingled  with  the  applause  there 
were  distinct  and  evidently  sincere  calls  for  the 
author.  But  to  these  calls  there  was  no  acknowl- 
edgment, for  the  author  was  at  the  time  huddled  in 

69 


THE    STAGE    DOOR 

the  back  of  a  closed  carriage  driving  along  a  heavy, 
sandy  road  down  by  the  Natasqua  River,  and  the 
man  who  had  for  the  past  few  weeks  acted  the  part 
of  the  author  was  sitting,  very  cold  and  very  nervous, 
in  the  last  row  of  the  balcony. 

The  telegraph  station  at  Pleasant  Harbor  closed 
at  eight  o'clock  in  the  evening,  and  so  when  it  was 
all  over,  there  was  nothing  for  Fielding  to  do  but 
wait  for  the  morning  to  tell  Kerrigan  that  "The  In- 
terpreter" had  achieved  a  real  success.  Miss  Carew 
and  Bronson  had  never  doubted  that  the  critics 
would  approve  of  it,  and  in  this  their  judgment  was 
correct.  Some  of  them  even  went  so  far  as  to  say  that 
if  Mr.  Ferguson  had  not  written  the  great  American 
play,  there  was  no  reason  to  believe  that  he  might 
not  eventually  do  so.  They  also  were  profuse  in  their 
gratitude  to  Bronson  for  daring  to  introduce  this  new 
American  author,  and  loud  in  their  praise  of  Miss 
Carew  for  appearing  in  a  play  in  which  she,  at  best, 
could  but  share  the  honors  with  another  and  un- 
known actress.  But  the  success  of  the  play  was  not 
alone  confined  to  the  men  who  wrote  the  reviews  and 
to  whom  technique  and  the  literary  quality  count  for 

70 


'BEAUTY'      KERRIGAN 

so  much.  The  human  note  that  had  appealed  to  Miss 
Carew  so  strongly  found  its  way  over  the  footlights 
to  the  great  theatre-going  public,  and  the  public 
showed  its  appreciation  by  going  to  see  "The  Inter- 
preter" for  many  months,  not  only  in  New  York,  but 
all  over  the  country. 

When  the  play  was  over  that  first  night,  and  the 
theatre  was  empty,  Fielding  went  down  on  the  stage 
and  visited  the  different  members  of  the  company  in 
their  dressing-rooms,  and  thanked  them  for  all  the 
hard  work  they  had  done  and  the  help  they  had  been 
to  the  play.  He  had  arranged,  long  before  that  night, 
that  Miss  Emery  and  he  were  to  take  supper  together 
and  talk  it  all  over,  but  the  excitement  of  her  success 
had  told  on  the  girl,  and  instead  of  going  to  supper, 
she  asked  that  he  would  take  her  for  a  drive  so  that 
she  could  be  in  the  open  air.  They  took  a  hansom 
and  drove  up  Fifth  Avenue  out  to  the  park,  which  at 
that  hour  and  at  that  season  of  the  year  was  quite 
deserted.  It  was  a  fine  clear  night,  fairly  warm  for  so 
late  in  October,  and  as  they  jogged  along  over  the 
smooth  roads,  the  girl  leaned  out  over  the  doors  and 
drank  in  long  breaths  of  the  clear  night  air.  Fielding 

71 


THE    STAGE    DOOR 

sat  back  in  the  hansom  and  looked  at  the  girl's  profile, 
at  the  full  rounded  throat  and  at  the  soft  brown  hair 
brushed  back  over  the  delicately  moulded  ear.  She 
was  the  one  woman  who  had  ever  meant  very  much 
to  him  and  she  meant  everything — the  woman  who 
had  filled  his  mind  and  his  heart  every  hour  of  every 
day  since  he  had  first  known  her.  He  put  out  his  hand 
and  laid  it  on  hers. 

"I  never  knew  what  happiness  really  meant  be- 
fore," he  said. 

"That  must  mean  a  good  deal — especially  to  you 
— to  be  really  happy." 

"Why  especially  to  me?"  he  asked. 

The  girl  was  looking  out  ahead  of  her,  at  the  wind- 
ing road  and  at  the  rows  of  dark  leafless  trees  that 
lined  their  path.  "Oh,  I  don't  know  exactly,  except 
the  man  who  wrote  'The  Interpreter'  could  not  al- 
ways have  been  very  happy." 

There  was  a  silence  for  a  moment  and  then  Field- 
ing spoke  quite  evenly  and  almost  without  in- 
flection  

"I  didn't  write  'The  Interpreter,' "  he  said.  "No,  I 
did  not  write  'The  Interpreter.'" 

72 


'BEAUTY'      KERRIGAN 

The  girl  turned  and  looked  at  him  and  his  eyes 
met  her  glance  fairly.  Then  she  turned  back  to  her 
former  position,  her  arms  resting  on  the  doors  of  the 
hansom. 

"Do  you  care  for  me,"  he  asked,  "or  do  you  care 
for  the  author  of  the  play  ?"  It  was  the  first  time  he 
had  ever  spoken  of  either  of  them  caring  for  any  one. 

The  girl  put  up  one  hand  and  pressed  it  gently 
across  her  eyes.  "I  don't  quite  know — who  did  write 
'The  Interpreter?'" 

"A  friend  of  mine  named  Kerrigan.  He's  a  cripple. 
When  he  was  younger — only  a  year  or  so  ago — he 
was  very  strong  and  very  good-looking.  They  called 
him  'Beauty'  Kerrigan  in  those  days.  He  was  hurt 
trying  to  get  some  children  out  of  a  burning  building 
and  afterward  he  chose  to  live  like  a  hermit.  He 
doesn't  exist  except  for  me." 

"Couldn't  I  see  him?"  she  asked.  "I  owe  him  a 
great  deal.  I'd  like  to  say  'thank  you'  to  him." 

"I  don't  know — I  don't  know  that,"  he  said. 
"You  see  I  promised  I  never  would  tell,  and  I've 
broken  my  promise.  I  never  would  have  told  any 
one  except  you — to-night." 

73 


THE    STAGE    DOOR 

They  drove  back  in  silence,  and  Fielding  left  her 
at  her  boarding-house,  and  then  went  on  to  his  own 
room  and  waited  until  it  was  time  to  go  to  Pleasant 
Harbor.  The  first  train  started  while  the  stars  were 
still  shining  and  the  sun  was  not  long  up  when  he 
reached  his  destination.  Kerrigan  had  not  expected 
him  until  the  first  morning  express  train,  which  ar- 
rived some  time  after  the  slow  local  Fielding  had 
decided  to  take  at  the  last  moment.  There  was  no 
one  at  the  station  to  meet  him  and  so  he  started  to 
walk  to  the  farm,  shortening  his  journey  by  tramping 
through  the  fields,  still  wet  with  dew  and  heavy  with 
the  scent  of  wild  flowers. 

When  he  reached  the  white  farmhouse  he  softly 
opened  the  door,  believing  that  Kerrigan  was  still 
asleep.  But  he  found  him  standing  in  the  sitting- 
room,  looking  tired  and  worn  as  if  he,  too,  had  had  a 
bad  night.  He  was  leaning  against  the  side  of  the 
fireplace  and  looking  at  the  picture  of  Ruth  Emery, 
which  he  held  between  his  two  scarred  hands.  When 
he  heard  Fielding  he  looked  up  and  then  slowly  put 
the  photograph  back  in  its  place. 

"Well?  "he  asked. 

74 


'BEAUTY'      KERRIGAN 

Fielding  threw  a  bundle  of  the  morning  papers 
on  the  desk.  "It's  fine,  Kerry!"  he  said.  "It's  a  big 
hit  and  the  papers  say  your  work  is  wonderful! 
Bronson  and  Miss  Carew  and  every  one  were  de- 
lighted— absolutely  satisfied." 

And  then  the  two  men  sat  down  before  the  fire, 
and  Fielding  read  each  notice  aloud  several  times 
and  told  Kerrigan  everything  that  had  happened, 
from  the  rise  of  the  first  to  the  fall  of  the  last  curtain 
and  afterward.  He  told  him,  too,  of  his  drive  with 
Miss  Emery  and  of  all  that  he  had  said  to  her. 

"You  must  see  her,  Kerry,"  he  begged — "if  it's 
only  for  a  moment.  She  feels  that  she  owes  you  so 
much." 

And  so,  although  Kerrigan  had  not  seen  nor  spoken 
to  a  girl  since  the  day  of  the  fire,  it  was  arranged  be- 
fore Fielding  went  back  to  town  the  next  day  that  he 
was  to  return  on  Sunday  and  bring  Miss  Emery  with 
him. 

It  was  on  a  brilliant  November  morning  that  they 
arrived  at  the  little  station  and  found  Ferguson 
waiting  for  them.  A  fresh  breeze  blew  in  over  the 
water  and  there  was  a  sharp  tang  in  the  air  that 

75 


THE    STAGE    DOOR 

gave  warning  of  the  coming  winter  and  started  the 
blood  tingling  in  their  veins.  When  they  reached  the 
white  farmhouse  Fielding  opened  the  door  into  Ker- 
rigan's sitting-room  and  Ruth  Emery  went  in  to  meet 
her  host.  Every  curtain  had  been  pulled  aside,  every 
shade  had  been  raised  so  that  the  place  was  flooded 
with  sunlight.  In  the  golden  haze  they  found  Kerri- 
gan standing  in  the  centre  of  the  room  leaning  on  his 
cane  and  waiting.  The  girl  moved  quickly  across  the 
room  with  her  hand  outstretched  toward  him.  Kerri- 
gan tried  to  stand  very  erect,  but  at  the  touch  of  her 
hand  he  crumpled  up  and  she  put  her  arms  about 
him  as  if  he  had  been  a  child.  Fielding  closed  the 
door  softly  behind  him  and  walked  around  the  house 
and  over  the  meadow  to  the  river.  When  he  had 
reached  the  pier  he  got  into  the  cat-boat  and  quite 
mechanically  hoisted  the  sail,  and  casting  off  went 
sailing  away  down  the  little  river. 

Those  of  us  who  follow  the  drama  most  closely 
believe  that  the  marriage  of  Ruth  Emery  deprived 
the  stage  of  a  very  exceptional  emotional  actress, 
but  if  she  shares  this  belief,  she  has  certainly  never 

76 


'BEAUTY'      KERRIGAN 

been  known  to  have  expressed  it.  Fielding  fell  back 
into  his  old  easy-going  and  always  lovable  ways,  and 
is  still  a  valued  member  of  the  paper  that  first  em- 
ployed him.  Kerrigan  writes  plays  now  and  signs 
them,  too,  and  this  with  his  stories  and  a  novel  or  two 
has  made  him  a  prosperous  and  distinguished  gen- 
tleman. For  two  years  after  his  marriage  he  lived 
on,  almost  as  much  of  a  recluse  as  he  had  before  that 
time.  But  now  he  frequently  drives  into  town  at  the 
side  of  his  very  beautiful  wife,  and  while  she  pur- 
chases the  necessities  of  the  household,  he  remains 
outside  in  the  carriage  and  passes  the  time  of  day 
with  the  good  people  of  the  village.  Almost  every  day 
now,  when  the  weather  is  fine,  you  can  see  him  sit- 
ting on  his  porch  or  on  a  bench  on  the  lawn  watching 
a  little  child  tumble  about  in  a  perfectly  laudable 
effort  to  walk  by  itself.  They  say  at  Pleasant  Harbor 
that  it  was  the  boy  that  brought  Kerrigan  out  again 
into  the  sunshine  and  the  company  of  his  fellow  men. 
But,  as  Fielding  expresses  it,  as  long  as  it  was  a  child 
that  took  him  out  of  the  world  for  those  miserable 
years  it  was  only  right,  after  all,  that  a  child  should 
lead  him  back  again. 

77 


COCCARO    THE    CLOWN 


COCCARO    THE    CLOWN 

IHE  two  men  were  seated  in  their  new  revolving 
chairs  before  two  new  mahogany  desks  in  the  new 
offices  of  the  new  theatrical  firm  of  Henning  &  Con- 
away.  Jacob  Henning  had  spent  the  better  part  of  his 
fifty  years  in  accumulating  great  sums  of  money,  by 
transforming  rawhide  into  shoe  leather;  but  now, 
having  reached  his  years  of  indiscretion,  he  had 
planned  to  risk  a  portion  of  his  fortune  in  the  un- 
certainties of  the  theatrical  business. 

Personally  he  was  a  large  silent  man,  who  was  not 
so  keenly  interested  to  make  money  in  the  new  busi- 
ness as  he  was  to  view  at  close  range  the  fleshpots 
of  Broadway,  and  to  have  the  name  of  Henning 
known  beyond  the  somewhat  narrow  confines  of  the 
leather  trade.  He  had  chosen  Walter  Conaway  as  his 
partner,  because  in  theatrical  affairs  the  young  man 
had  already  shown  some  accomplishment  and  much 

81 


THE    STAGE    DOOR 

promise.  Conaway  had  formerly  been  an  advance 
agent,  and  he  therefore  believed  that  silence  was  any- 
thing but  golden. 

"You  may  be  a  very  rich  man,  Mr.  Henning," 
said  the  young  manager.  "I  know  money  will  buy 
many  things;  but  the  hardest  thing  you  ever  tried  to 
buy  in  your  life  is  a  laugh." 

Henning  bit  a  little  deeper  into  his  cigar  and 
nodded  his  smooth  moon  face  at  his  associate  mana- 
ger to  continue. 

"I  can  get  you  show  girls  and  a  working  chorus 
by  opening  that  particularly  dusty  window  over 
there,  that  opens  on  Broadway,  and  then  whistling 
twice.  You  know  how  easy  it  was  to  buy  a  good  book, 
as  far  as  plot  goes,  and  if  it  isn't  right  we  can  buy  a 
couple  of  play  carpenters  for  a  shade  under  union 
rates.  There  are  as  many  song  hits  lying  on  the  music 
publishers'  shelves  on  Twenty-eighth  street  as  there 
are  tacks  in  a  tack  factory  that's  working  night 
shifts ;  but  I  tell  you  music  and  girls  and  a  plot  never 
yet  spelled  success  for  a  musical  show  on  Broadway. 
What  we  want  are  comedians,  comedians  that  we 
can  loan  the  stage  to  for  twenty  minutes  while  the 

82 


COCCARO    THE    CLOWN 

girls  are  changing  from  an  ostrich  chorus  to  a  birth 
of  the  poppy  finale.  We  want  two  fellows  who  bring 
their  own  stuff  with  them  and  who  carry  it  under 
their  wigs  and  not  on  reversible  cuffs,  men  who  can 
ad  lib.  a  scene  if  the  lights  go  out,  or  the  soprano 
wants  to  serve  pink  tea  to  her  friends  in  the  dress- 
ing room.  And  I  tell  you  that  kind  are  hard  to  get." 

"Somebody  gets  them,"  Henning  said  slowly; 
"I've  seen  'em.  I  hardly  ever  go  to  a  theatre  that 
some  fellow  on  the  stage  doesn't  make  me  laugh.  If 
other  people  can  buy  comedians,  then  why  can't 
we?" 

"For  two  reasons,"  the  metropolitan  manager 
spoke  glibly  and  with  much  decision.  "All  the  good 
ones  are  tied  up  with  their  present  managers;  and 
they  would  be  gagged,  too,  but  you  see  that  would 
interfere  with  their  work.  What  we  have  got  to  do  is 
to  discover  comedians — real  comedians,  latent  gen- 
iuses, who  work  for  thirty  a  week  in  low  variety 
theatres." 

"And  then  ?"  asked  Henning. 

"Then?"  repeated  the  manager.  "Then  we  fumi- 
gate them  and  their  methods,  tie  them  up  with  yards 

83 


THE    STAGE    DOOR 

of  red  tape  and  eventually  make  them  Broadway 
favorites,  and  ourselves,  incidentally,  successful 
managers." 

"Do  you  know  any  of  these  diamonds  in  coal 
holes  ?  "  asked  Henning  a  little  sceptically. 

The  metropolitan  manager  looked  out  of  the  win- 
dow on  the  yellow  fa9ade  of  the  opera  house  on  the 
other  side  of  Broadway  and  then  back  to  the  Jap- 
anese parasol  that  screened  the  empty  fireplace. 
Then  he  placed  the  tips  of  his  fingers  carefully  to- 
gether and  looked  Henning  fairly  in  the  eyes.  "I 
think  I  do,"  he  said  deliberately.  "That  is  why  I 
have  tried  to  make  you  understand  the  difficulty  of 
the  situation.  Their  names  are  Billy  Danella  and 
Coccaro  the  Clown;  they're  known  as  'Coccaro  and 
Danella.'  An  advance  agent  tipped  them  off  to  me 
last  winter,  and  I  looked  them  up  the  other  night. 
They  are  working  down  on  Eighth  Avenue  now,  and 
the  little  one,  Danella,  is  a  knock  out.  He  makes  'em 
scream  all  the  time.  Of  course,  he  is  very  tough,  and 
he  will  have  to  be  sterilized  for  Broadway,  but  he 
was  born  comic  and  has  naturally  fallen  into  meth- 
ods that  legitimate  actors  take  a  lifetime  to  learn." 

84 


COCCARO    THE    CLOWN 

"And  his  partner?"  asked  Henning. 

Conaway  shook  his  head.  "Just  a  feeder  to  Dan- 
ella.  He's  a  big,  fine,  athletic-looking  chap,  but  he's 
not  funny  at  all.  He  worked  with  Danella  in  the  bur- 
lesque, but  in  the  olio  he  did  a  rather  neat  turn  with 
a  woman.  He  makes  up  as  a  clown  and  has  a  trick 
dog,  and  she  did  a  contortion  specialty.  I  imagine 
they  are  circus  people;  and  they  could  be  of  no  pos- 
sible use  to  us.  However,  if  you  say  so,  we'll  go  down 
there  this  evening  and  look  them  over." 

That  night  the  two  men  sat  in  the  orchestra  in  the 
hot,  dirty  little  theatre  on  Eighth  Avenue.  Through 
the  fumes  of  ill-smelling  tobacco  smoke  the  low 
comedy  work  of  Danella  shone  like  a  revolving  light 
on  a  misty  night.  Every  time  he  came  on  the  stage, 
the  packed,  perspiring  audience  of  many  men  and  a 
few  women  laughed  uproariously. 

The  silent  Henning  laughed  and  applauded  the 
loudest  of  all.  "He's  immense!"  he  said,  nudging 
Conaway.  "I  tell  you  he's  great — just  the  fellow  for 
the  Mogul  in  our  show ! " 

After  the  performance  was  over  they  stopped  at 
the  manager's  office. 

85 


THE    STAGE    DOOR 

"Bob  Jumel's  my  name,  gentlemen,"  said  the 
manager.  "What  can  I  do  for  you?  Come  in  and 
take  a  seat."  He  was  a  short,  thick-set  man  in  shirt 
sleeves.  A  high  silk  hat  was  stuck  on  the  back  of  his 
head,  a  half-smoked  cigar  hung  down  from  heavy 
lips,  and  a  great  deal  of  cheap  jewelry  pinned  to  his 
waistcoat  proved  his  membership  in  many  secret 
orders. 

"I  wanted  to  ask  you  about  Coccaro  and  Dan- 
ella,"  said  Conaway. 

"I  supposed  that  was  it  when  I  saw  you  in  front. 
You're  not  the  first  that's  been  looking  them  over." 
He  smiled  genially  at  Conaway. 

"Mr.  Henning  and  I,"  said  the  Broadway  man- 
ager, "are  putting  on  a  big  extravaganza  this  sum- 
mer, and  we  had  a  part  we  thought  might  suit  Dan- 
ella.  Do  you  think  you  could  let  us  have  him?  It 
would  be  a  big  chance.  We  are  going  to  spend  forty 
thousand  dollars  in  real  money,  and  we  have  all  the 
time  we  want  in  the  best  theatre  for  a  summer  show 
on  Broadway." 

Jumel  shifted  his  cigar  to  the  other  side  of  his 
mouth,  put  his  feet  on  the  desk  in  front  of  him,  and 
86 


COCCARO    THE    CLOWN 

for  some  moments  gazed  up  at  a  dusty  cobweb  in  the 
corner  of  the  ceiling.  "Of  course,  it's  a  good  chance 
for  the  boys,"  he  said.  "I  know  that,  and  I  know  it's 
got  to  come  some  day;  but  you  see  they  always  work 
for  me  in  the  summer.  I  have  a  bit  in  a  one-ring  circus 
that  plays  through  Western  Pennsylvania  and  Ohio 
one-night  stands,  and  the  boys  and  Marzetta  (that's 
Coccaro's  wife  you  saw  work  with  him  in  the  first 
part)  are  about  the  best  assets  we've  got.  Both  the 
boys  clown  for  me  with  the  circus,  and  they're  great. 
I  don't  want  to  be  no  dog  in  the  manger,  but  you 
know  comedians  are  awful  scarce.  If  they  weren't, 
you  wouldn't  be  looking  for  them  down  on  Eighth 
Avenue." 

"We're  willing  to  pay  a  good  bonus,"  suggested 
Conaway. 

Jumel  nodded.  "Of  course,  I  understand  that. 
You'd  have  to  pay  them  Broadway  salaries,  and  I 
could  get  my  bit  out  of  that." 

"As  a  matter  of  fact,  Mr.  Jumel,"  Conaway  said, 
"we  really  could  get  along  without  Coccaro;  it's  the 
little  fellow  we  want.  What  do  you  think  ?" 

"No,"  said  Jumel  abruptly,  "it  wouldn't  do  at 
87 


THE    STAGE    DOOR 

all.  Those  boys  have  worked  together  for  fifteen 
years.  I  know  just  how  you  feel  about  it;  it's  one  of 
the  oldest  stories  in  the  business;  it's  been  the  same 
with  every  team  from  Booth  and  Barrett  to  Mclntyre 
and  Heath.  There's  a  weak  end  to  every  sketch;  but 
you  can't  pry  those  kind  of  people  apart  with  a  crow- 
bar. It's  Coccaro  and  Danella  or  nothing.  What 
would  you  give  for  the  team  ?  " 

Conaway  glanced  at  Henning,  but  the  latter  was 
apparently  absorbed  in  a  large  fly-specked  calendar 
over  the  manager's  desk.  "I  don't  want  to  haggle," 
said  Conaway,  "and  I  do  want  Danella.  I'll  give  you 
two  hundred  a  week  for  the  team,  and  guarantee 
you  eight  weeks.  If  they  don't  make  good,  you  can 
take  them  back  and  I'll  make  up  the  difference  in 
salary." 

"They'll  make  good  all  right,"  said  Jumel.  "I'll 
take  two  and  a  half." 

Conaway  again  looked  at  his  backer,  and  this  time 
caught  his  eye.  Henning  shrugged  his  shoulders  in 
assent. 

"It's  a  pretty  stiff  price,"  Conaway  said;  "but  if 
Mr.  Henning  is  willing —  "  The  three  men  rose  and 

88 


COCCARO    THE    CLOWN 

shook  hands.  "You  had  better  bring  them  into  the 
office  to-morrow  morning  before  lunch,  and  I'll  have 
the  contracts  ready.  Good-night,  Mr.  Jumel." 

The  four  friends  sat  about  a  table  in  a  back  room 
of  the  saloon  across  the  way  from  the  theatre.  There 
was  Jumel  still  chewing  the  same  unlit  cigar;  Jim 
Coccaro,  broad  and  big,  with  the  pink  and  white 
skin  and  the  clear  eye  of  the  conditioned  athlete; 
Billy  Danella,  small,  pug  nosed,  ears  that  stood  out 
at  right  angles  to  his  blue,  close-shaven  face,  a  slit 
where  his  mouth  should  have  been,  and  beady  eyes 
that  forever  shifted  and  twinkled.  The  fourth  mem- 
ber of  the  party  was  Marzetta  the  Contortionist,  or, 
as  she  was  known  in  her  home  life,  Mrs.  Jim  Coccaro. 

When  Jumel  had  indulged  in  the  most  unusual 
occurrence  of  ordering  a  bottle  of  champagne,  and 
after  the  waiter  had  left  the  room,  he  told  the  three 
members  of  his  company  of  the  wonderful  fortune 
that  had  befallen  them. 

Danella's  eyes  blinked  and  shifted  quickly  from 
one  to  the  other  of  the  party.  "I  knew  it  would 
come!"  he  said,  hitting  the  table  fiercely  with  his 

89 


THE    STAGE    DOOR 

closed  fist.  "It  had  to  come!  We've  worked  for  it  and 
we  deserve  it.  They've  been  stealing  my  stuff  for 
years;  but  I'll  show  'em  now — I'll  show  those 
Broadway  robbers ! " 

Under  the  table  Marzetta  put  her  hand  on  her 
husband's  knee  and  gently  pressed  it.  They  looked 
into  each  other's  eyes  and  smiled  with  a  thorough 
understanding. 

To  Danella  this  new  prosperity  meant  not  only 
money  but  a  kind  of  fame,  an  acknowledgment  of 
his  comic  powers,  and  from  a  public  he  had  never 
even  dared  to  hope  that  he  would  know.  But  to  Coc- 
caro  and  his  wife  it  meant  money,  and  money  meant 
the  power  to  break  away  from  the  theatre  and  the 
circus  forever.  Since  the  day  of  their  marriage  they 
had  saved  their  pennies  with  the  one  thought  before 
them  of  a  farm  all  of  their  own  where  they  would 
never  again  see  chalk  or  grease  paint  or  smell  the 
damp  sawdust  under  their  feet.  But  until  now  the 
goal  had  seemed  a  very  long  way  off.  As  soon  as  it 
was  possible,  they  slipped  away  to  their  boarding 
house  to  talk  over  their  happiness  alone,  and  left 
Danella  and  Jumel  still  drinking  and  harking  back 

90 


COCCARO    THE    CLOWN 

to  old  scenes  and  bits  of  business  which  could  be  used 
effectively  in  the  new  play.  It  was  early  morning 
when  the  two  men  parted,  Jumel  silent,  but  Danella 
raving  jubilantly  over  the  sudden  turn  in  his  fortunes. 

The  next  day  at  noon  Coccaro,  Danella,  and  Ju- 
mel met  Conaway  and  Henning  at  the  offices  of  the 
new  management.  The  printed  contracts,  already 
filled  in,  lay  on  the  desk,  and  Conaway,  smiling, 
asked  Danella  if  he  would  sign  first. 

The  comedian  took  up  the  contract  and,  leaning 
leisurely  against  the  desk,  turned  to  the  first  page. 
"It  says  here,"  he  said  slowly,  "that  this  contract  is 
with  the  team  Coccaro  and  Danella." 

Conaway  smiled  again  and  nodded. 

"That,"  continued  Danella  in  the  same  deliberate 
tone,  "is  a  mistake.  The  only  contract  I  sign  is  for 
two  hundred  and  fifty  dollars  for  the  services  of  Billy 
Danella.  I  have  no  partner — we  quit  last  night." 

Conaway  turned  toward  Coccaro  and  Jumel,  but 
the  two  men  were  looking  at  Danella  in  blank  amaze- 
ment. It  was  the  clown  who  broke  the  silence. 

"Why,  Billy,"  he  said  very  gently,  "I  don't  un- 
derstand. We've  always  signed  as  Coccaro  and 

91 


THE    STAGE    DOOR 

Danella.  You  don't  mean  surely  that —  "  He  did  not 
end  the  sentence,  but  put  out  his  hand  toward  his 
old  partner. 

Danella  folded  his  arms  and  leaned  farther  back 
against  the  desk.  "Yes,  that's  what  I  mean,"  he  said 
— "just  that.  For  fifteen  years  I've  supported  you. 
I  wrote  your  stuff,  every  line  of  it,  and  I  taught  you 
how  to  hand  it  to  them.  For  fifteen  years  I  have  kept 
you  and  your  wife  alive.  Everything  you  ate,  every 
stitch  of  clothes  on  your  backs,  you  owe  to  me.  It  was 
I  who  got  the  laughs,  and  just  because  we  had  been 
kids  together  I  was  easy  and  gave  you  half  the  money. 
Ask  Jumel  there,  ask  any  stage  hand  who  ever  saw 
us  work,  how  long  you  would  have  lasted  without 
me.  But  that's  over  and  done  with  now.  You  can 
sign  in  this  company  or  you  can  go  back  to  doing 
tricks  with  your  poodle,  Mr.  Coccaro  the  Clown,  and 
your  wife  can  go  on  doing  splits  and  drinking  tum- 
blers of  water  while  she's  twisted  into  a  bow-knot; 
but  you  can't  sign  any  more  papers  as  Coccaro  and 
Danella.  I'm  plain  Billy  Danella  after  this — Billy 
Danella,  Comedian." 

Henning,  who  had  been  sitting  silent  in  a  corner, 
92 


COCCARO    THE    CLOWN 

started  forward,  but  his  partner  motioned  him  back. 
Conaway  knew  that  Danella  must  be  signed  at  any 
price.  Throughout  the  long  speech  Coccaro  had 
looked  Danella  evenly  in  the  eyes,  and  now  that  his 
old  partner  had  finished,  he  continued  for  some  mo- 
ments to  do  so  still.  At  last  he  nodded  as  if  in  accept- 
ance of  the  new  arrangement. 

"All  right,  Billy,"  he  said— "all  right,  if  that's  the 
way  you  feel  about  it."  He  started  to  leave  the  room, 
but  as  he  reached  the  door  he  turned  once  more  to 
his  former  partner.  "It's  a  long  time  we've  been  to- 
gether— a  long  time  is  fifteen  years,  Billy." 

Danella,  with  folded  arms  and  drawn  lips,  looked 
stolidly  at  the  wall  before  him.  For  a  moment  Coc- 
caro hesitated.  "It  seems,  gentlemen,"  he  said  at 
last,  "that  Danella  and  I  can't  do  business  any  longer 
together.  If  you  should  still  want  me,  Mr.  Jumel 
knows  where  I  stop  in  town.  Good-day  to  you  all." 

During  the  next  two  days  the  two  men  signed 
separate  contracts;  Danella  for  the  sum  he  de- 
manded, and  his  former  partner  for  just  one-fifth  of 
that  amount.  Indeed,  if  it  had  not  been  for  the  large 
heart  of  Henning  and  the  strong  appeal  of  Jumel, 

93 


THE    STAGE    DOOR 

Coccaro  would  have  had  to  return  to  his  old  place  in 
the  circus.  But  if  the  life  in  town  was  a  little  easier 
for  the  clown  and  his  wife,  their  finances  had  been 
scarcely  bettered,  and  the  goal  of  their  wishes  was 
just  as  far  beyond  their  reach  as  ever. 

When  the  production  was  completed  and  the  last 
dress  rehearsals  were  over,  "The  Mighty  Mogul" 
company,  a  hundred  strong,  boarded  a  special  train 
one  bright  Sunday  afternoon  in  May  and  crept 
slowly  out  of  the  Grand  Central  Station.  Its  destina- 
tion was  a  small  New  England  town  where  the  stage 
was  large  and  where  there  was  plenty  of  space  for 
the  carpenters  and  stage  hands  and  electricians  to 
become  accustomed  to  the  new  material. 

Unheralded,  unknown,  in  the  presence  of  a  few 
New  England  citizens  and  half  a  dozen  New  York 
managers,  "The  Mighty  Mogul"  was  finally  born. 
After  it  was  all  over  it  seemed  as  if,  besides  the  New 
England  citizens  and  the  New  York  managers,  most 
of  the  good  fairies  must  have  been  sitting  about 
somewhere  in  the  theatre,  for  they  had  certainly  left 
their  best  gifts  with  the  new  monarch.  The  towns- 

94 


COCCARO    THE    CLOWN 

people  came  in  great  numbers  to  see  the  play  the 
following  night;  but  long  before  that  the  news  had 
reached  the  shady  side  of  Broadway,  and  from 
Thirty-sixth  Street  to  Forty-second  Street  the  actors 
acclaimed  it  aloud,  and  just  above  the  sidewalk  the 
managers  sat  in  their  stuffy  offices  and  chewed  their 
cigars  and  wondered  if  it  could  be  true. 

It  hardly  seemed  possible  that  Walter  Conaway 
("the  boy  manager,"  he  was  called)  had  built  up  a 
production  that  the  wisest  of  the  old  guard  of  man- 
agers admitted  was  ten  years  ahead  of  its  time.  It  had 
color  and  speed  and  novelty,  at  least  so  rumor  said, 
and  behind  it  all  there  was  evident  the  money  un- 
limited and  the  intelligence  and  the  discretion  of  a 
new  power.  And  there  were  wonderful  tales,  too,  of 
a  new  comedian,  one  William  Danella,  who  had  a 
method  all  of  his  own,  and  who  would  make  the  first- 
night  audience  in  New  York  sit  up  and  take  notice 
as  it  had  not  done  in  many  seasons. 

It  was  five  o'clock  the  following  Monday  afternoon 
when  Henning  and  Conaway  left  the  theatre  on 
Broadway  and  stood  for  a  moment  on  the  sidewalk 
looking  up  at  the  electric  sign  over  the  entrance. 

95 


THE    STAGE    DOOR 

Their  work  was  over,  and  it  was  up  to  the  actors  and 
the  head  carpenter. 

"Well,  I  guess  it'll  be  all  right,"  Henning  said. 
"There's  nothing  else  we  can  do,  I  suppose  ?" 

Conaway  laid  his  hand  affectionately  on  his  back- 
er's arm.  "Not  a  thing,  Mr.  Henning,  not  a  thing; 
that  is,  except  to  step  aside  and  see  the  limited  pass. 
I  told  you  we'd  sneak  away  in  silence  and  come  back 
with  bells  on." 

It  was  the  call  boy,  who,  while  on  his  half-hour 
round,  discovered  that  Danella  was  not  in  his  dress- 
ing-room. A  few  minutes  later  the  men  and  women 
who  had  already  taken  their  seats  in  the  theatre  were 
surprised  to  see  a  man  in  his  shirt  sleeves,  collarless, 
and  with  disheveled  hair,  run  through  the  audito- 
rium, and  almost  immediately  run  back  again  fol- 
lowed by  two  men  in  immaculate  evening  dress. 
Henning,  Conaway,  and  the  stage  manager  instinct- 
ively crossed  the  darkened  stage  in  the  direction  of 
the  entrance  leading  from  the  street.  In  the  narrow 
hallway,  just  inside  the  stage  door,  they  found  Jumel 
dressed  in  ill-fitting,  conspicuously  new  evening 

96 


COCCARO    THE    CLOWN 

clothes,  a  great  diamond  in  his  shirt  front.  He  was 
leaning  dejectedly  against  the  wall,  his  hands  stuck 
deep  in  his  pockets. 

"Well,"  said  Conaway,  trying  to  keep  himself  in 
hand.  "Do  you  think  he  may  come  yet?" 

Jumel  shook  his  head.  "Hardly  now,  I  should 
think.  He  always  gets  in  by  seven." 

"When  did  you  see  him  last ?" 

"I  left  him  at  a  cafe  across  the  street  last  night 
after  the  rehearsal." 

"Don't  you  think  we  had  better  send  up  to  his 
house?"  suggested  Henning. 

"I've  done  that,"  answered  Jumel;  "but  it's  no 
use.  He  never  goes  home  when  he's  like  that." 

Conaway  turned  white,  and  his  teeth  came  sharply 
together.  "So  that's  it,  is  it?" 

Jumel  nodded.  "I  guess  that's  it,"  he  said. 

"And  so  you  sold  us  a  gold  brick;  did  you  ?" 

Jumel  did  not  answer. 

"It  seems  to  me,  Jumel,  we  treated  you  fairly," 
Conaway  snapped  at  him.  "Why  didn't  you  tell  us  ?" 

"How  was  I  to  know?  He  doesn't  often  go  on  a 
spree,  and  who  would  think  he  would  fall  down  at  a 

97 


THE    STAGE    DOOR 

time  like  this  ?  He  was  scared,  that's  all.  The  job  was 
too  big  for  him." 

Henning  stood  solemnly  by  rolling  an  unlit  cigar 
between  his  lips.  "Just  practically  what  does  it 
mean?"  he  asked. 

"It  means  we  can't  open,"  said  Conaway.  "It 
means  we  come  in  here  with  a  big  success  and  have 
to  keep  the  house  dark  and  risk  forty  thousand 
dollars,  all  on  account  of  a  variety  actor." 

"How  about  to-morrow?"  asked  Henning. 

"That  wouldn't  do.  There's  a  big  syndicate  open- 
ing and  we'd  get  the  second  critics." 

"It  will  have  to  be  Wednesday,  then  ?" 

"Who  knows?"  answered  Conaway  despond- 
ently. "There's  no  telling  when  he  will  be  back." 

Henning  took  the  cigar  out  of  his  mouth  and 
licked  the  end  carefully  with  his  tongue.  "I  don't 
care  so  much  about  the  money,"  he  said  slowly.  "It 
really  isn't  that,  but  I  have  never  had  a  failure  in 
business  before,  and  it  hurts  a  good  deal.  Everything 
looked  so  well  half  an  hour  ago,  too.  It  doesn't  really 
seem  fair,  somehow.  Of  course,  there's  no  one  else 
we  could  put  in;  is  there?" 

98 


COCCARO    THE    CLOWN 

Conaway  and  the  stage  manager  looked  at  each 
other  and  shook  their  heads. 

"There's  been  no  time  to  get  up  understudies," 
Conaway  explained.  "A  week  later  it  would  have 
been  different." 

"There's  just  one  thing  you  can  do,"  said  Jumel, 
"and  you've  got  an  even  chance  to  win  out.  Put 
Coccaro  in  the  part." 

Conaway  looked  at  Jumel  and  laughed.  "Jumel, 
I  think  you  must  be  crazy.  Coccaro  never  got  a  laugh 
in  his  life  and  you  know  it." 

"Yes,  he  did,"  answered  Jumel.  "He's  got  'em 
many  times  just  like  this,  when  Danella  was  off. 
He's  no  comedian,  but  he  can  give  an  imitation  of 
the  boy  that  would  fool  Danella's  own  mother;  that 
is,  if  she  kept  her  eyes  shut." 

"Oh,  what's. the  use?  He  doesn't  know  the  lines, 
anyhow,"  and  Conaway  turned  away. 

"I'll  bet  he  does,"  said  Jumel.  "Didn't  you  notice 
how  he  stood  at  the  wings  always  watching  Danella. 
He's  done  that  for  years.  I  tell  you  it's  a  habit  with 
him.  You  mayn't  think  he's  as  good  as  Danella,  but 
the  audience  don't  know." 


THE    STAGE    DOOR 

Conaway  turned  to  Henning.  "Well,"  he  said, 
"it's  up  to  you,  Mr.  Henning.  It  looks  like  a  long 
chance  to  me,  even  if  he's  up  in  the  part." 

Henning  looked  from  one  to  the  other  of  the  faces 
of  the  three  men.  For  a  moment  he  hesitated.  "I 
think  I'd  take  a  chance,"  he  said. 

"Who'll  play  Coccaro's  part?"  asked  Conaway. 

"That's  all  right,"  said  the  stage  manager.  "I  can 
do  that  easy." 

"All  right,"  Conaway  answered.  "And  now, 
Jumel,  it's  up  to  you." 

As  he  finished  the  sentence  Jumel  started  on  a 
run  for  Coccaro's  dressing-room. 

Half  an  hour  later  Henning  and  Conaway  were 
standing  on  the  stage  when  Jumel,  hot,  perspiring, 
coatless,  collarless,  his  suspenders  tied  about  his 
waist,  came  out  of  the  star's  dressing-room. 

"It's  all  right,"  he  said— "it's  all  right.  Marzetta 
has  got  Danella's  part,  and  she'll  stand  on  the  O.  P. 
side,  and  I'll  take  the  book  on  the  prompt  side  when 
Coccaro  is  on.  You  can  ring  in  now.  We'll  be  all 
ready,  sure.  And  you  two  had  better  stay  in  front;  it 
would  make  the  boy  nervous  to  have  you  back 
100 


COCCARO    THE     CLOWN 

here."  And  Jumel  dashed  back  again  to  the  dressing- 
room. 

Conaway  pulled  out  his  watch.  "Eight-twenty," 
he  said.  "We'll  practically  ring  up  on  time.  It's 
pretty  lucky;  that  is,  if—  "  He  smiled,  and  taking 
Henning  by  the  arm  led  him  off  the  stage  and  around 
back  of  the  boxes  to  the  front  of  the  theatre. 

During  the  performance  the  two  men  hung  over 
the  plush  balustrade  at  the  back  of  the  parquet  as  if 
it  had  been  the  rail  of  a  wrecked  vessel. 

"It  don't  seem  possible,"  whispered  Conaway. 
"It's  the  most  wonderful  imitation  I  ever  saw." 

Scene  after  scene  Coccaro  continued  to  read  his 
lines,  sing  the  songs,  and  do  the  dances.  Compared 
to  Danella,  it  was  a  little  colorless,  and  the  unction 
was  not  there;  but,  as  Jumel  said,  "the  audience 
didn't  know."  The  play  ran  smoothly  through  its 
course,  and  the  last  curtain  fell  on  a  triumph  for  the 
new  management.  Henning  and  Conaway  walked 
out  to  the  lobby  to  receive  the  congratulations  of  their 
friends ;  but  the  word  that  they  heard  most  often  was 
the  name  of  their  new  comedian  Danella.  The  next 
morning  the  critics  agreed  that "  The  Mighty  Mogul " 
101 


THE    STAGE    DOOR 

had  come  to  stay,  and  that  one  William  Danella  had 
secured  a  lasting  place  for  himself  in  the  brilliant 
firmament  of  Broadway  stars. 

Nothing  was  heard  from  Danella  the  next  day, 
but  late  Wednesday  evening  Henning  received  a 
note  from  him.  He  and  Conaway  were  sitting  in  the 
box  office,  happy  and  contented,  and  smiling  at  the 
empty  ticket  rack.  Henning  tossed  the  letter  to  his 
partner. 

"All  right,"  said  Conaway  when  he  had  finished 
reading  it;  "but  he  might  have  given  us  a  little  more 
notice  if  he  wants  to  go  on  to-night.  I'll  see  him  when 
he  comes  in." 

"Will  you  let  him  play  the  part  to-night?"  asked 
Henning. 

"Sure;  that  is,  if  he's  all  right.  Why  ?" 

Henning  puffed  slowly  on  his  cigar.  "Oh,  I  don't 
know.  I  suppose  I'm  new  at  the  business,  but  it 
seems  sort  of  hard  on  the  other  fellow  to  me.  Don't 
you  think  we  could  keep  him  on  ?  " 

Conaway  smiled  and  shook  his  head.  "We've  got 
Danella  under  contract  for  five  years,  and  that 
means  that  he  must  create  five  parts.  He'll  have  to 
102 


COCCARO    THE    CLOWN 

give  Coccaro  half  his  salary  for  the  two  nights,  any- 
how, and  I  don't  think  we  ought  to  ask  him  to  go 
back  to  his  old  part  to-night.  Besides,  he  doesn't  seem 
to  care  to  act — wants  to  be  a  farmer.  Told  me  he  was 
trying  to  buy  a  place  up  Connecticut  way.  Funny  for 
a  performer,  eh  ?  At  that,  I'm  not  very  keen  to  tell 
him  that  Danella's  going  on  to-night." 

"Don't  you  mind,"  Henning  said;  "I  think  I'll  see 
him  myself." 

He  found  Coccaro  in  the  star's  room.  The  clown 
was  seated  at  his  dressing  table,  slowly  making  up 
for  the  principal  part.  Henning  sat  down  on  a  trunk 
in  the  corner  of  the  room  and  cleared  his  throat. 

"Mr.  Coccaro,"  he  began,  "it  seems  Danella  is 
coming  back  to-night  and  wants  to  go  on." 

Coccaro  nodded  and  dropped  the  stick  of  grease 
paint  he  had  been  holding. 

"We  thought,"  Henning  went  on,  "that  you 
would  like  a  night  or  two  off,  and  so  you  needn't 
play  your  regular  part  to-night." 

"If  you  don't  mind,"  said  Coccaro,  "and  it  doesn't 
inconvenience  you  too  much,  I  don't  think  I'll  ever 
play  that  part  again.  I  couldn't  very  well  after — after 
103 


THE    STAGE    DOOR 

what's  happened.  Jumel  says  I  and  my  wife  can  go 
back  to  the  circus." 

For  some  moments  Henning  sat  silent,  swinging 
his  short  fat  legs  against  the  trunk.  "  It's  a  little  hard 
to  explain  to  you,  Mr.  Coccaro,"  he  began.  "I  am 
not  a  man  of  words,  and  I  find  it  difficult  to  say  just 
what  I  mean." 

Coccaro  turned  and  smiled  pleasantly  at  the  man- 
ager. "Don't  try,  Mr.  Henning,"  he  said.  "I  know 
what  you  want  to  say." 

"Perhaps  you  do  and  perhaps  you  don't.  It 
wasn't  the  money,  Mr.  Coccaro.  I  have  a  great  deal 
of  that,  more  than  I  can  spend.  But  it  was  my  posi- 
tion. You  saved  me  from  appearing  ridiculous  to  my 
old  business  friends,  and  your  work  that  night  turned 
disaster  into  a  great  success.  I  should  like  to  do  some- 
thing for  you  that  you  and  your  wife  would  remem- 
ber. Have  you  got  a  pen  about  here  ?" 

"There's  one  over  there  on  that  table,"  he  said. 
"I  have  been  writing  some  autographs  for  Danella; 
but  don't  think  I'll  forget  that  first  night,  Mr.  Hen- 
ning. I'll  remember  that  all  my  life." 

Henning  took  a  blank  check  from  his  pocket  book, 
104 


COCCARO    THE    CLOWN 

filled  it  out,  folded  it,  and  handed  it  to  Coccaro.  "The 
receipts  for  the  first  two  nights  of  the  piece,"  he  said, 
"were  thirty-six  hundred  and  two  dollars  and  sev- 
enty-five cents.  It  seems  to  me,  by  all  rights,  they  be- 
long to  you;  and  that'll  go  some  distance,  anyhow, 
toward  that  farm  of  yours." 

Coccaro  slowly  rose  to  his  feet  protesting  and  held 
out  his  hand  with  the  check  in  it. 

"No,  don't  you  be  foolish,"  said  Henning.  "I've 
got  a  farm  myself — I  don't  know  how  many  hundred 
acres;  but  there's  one  little  spot  on  it  where  I  grow 
corn.  I'll  send  you  some  of  the  seeds  next  October. 
I  tell  you  it's  the  greatest  corn  in  the  world!"  And 
Henning  closed  the  door  hurriedly  behind  him. 

A  few  minutes  later  Danella  came  into  the  dress- 
ing-room: the  two  men  nodded  to  each  other  and 
Danella  took  his  place  at  the  dressing  table  and  be- 
gan to  make  up. 

It  was  after  Coccaro  had  put  on  his  clothes  and 
was  ready  for  the  street  that  Danella  broke  the  long 
silence.  He  spoke  looking  straight  ahead  into  the 
mirror,  and  his  voice  sounded  curiously  even  and 
almost  without  meaning. 

105 


THE    STAGE    DOOR 

"  I  read  in  the  papers  that  you  made  a  great  hit  in 
the  part.  There's  no  good  in  my  saying  anything  now; 
it's  too  late.  But  I'm  much  obliged.  I'm  sorry  you've 
got  to  go  back  to  that  part." 

Coccaro  took  his  hat  from  a  peg.  "I'm  not  going 
back  to  the  part,"  he  said. 

Danella  continued  to  look  at  the  mirror  and  to 
draw  a  stick  of  grease  paint  mechanically  across  his 
forehead.  "Not  going  back?" 

"No,  and  I'm  not  going  back  to  the  circus." 
Coccaro  stopped  on  his  way  to  the  door  and  carefully 
traced  out  one  of  the  patterns  on  the  carpet  with  his 
walking  stick.  "No;  I'm  going  to  the  farm.  I've  got 
it  at  last." 

Danella  dropped  the  grease  paint,  and  without 
taking  his  eyes  from  the  face  in  the  mirror  rested  his 
chin  between  the  palms  of  his  hands.  From  outside 
there  came  the  noise  of  many  hurrying  feet  and  the  cry 
of  the  call  boy,  "Five  minutes!  Everybody  on  for  the 
first  act!" 

Coccaro  crossed  over  to  the  door,  and  then  turned 
back  with  his  hand  on  the  knob.  "According  to  the 
old  plan,  Bill,  you  were  to  have  your  room  always  at 
106 


COCCARO    THE    CLOWN 

the  farm.  Well,  if  you  ever  get  tired  here  and  want 
to  rest  up  a  bit,  you  know  the  room  is  there  waiting 
for  you  always.  Marzetta  and  I  wouldn't  want  any 
one  else  to  have  it." 

For  a  moment  he  hesitated  for  a  word  from  his  old 
partner,  but  Danella  did  not  answer  him. 

"  Good-night,"  said  Coccaro,  and  closed  the  door 
behind  him.  But  when  he  had  gone  a  few  steps  down 
the  hallway,  he  returned  and  softly  opening  the  door 
again,  tiptoed  across  the  room  to  where  Danella  lay 
on  the  dressing  table  his  arms  stretched  in  front  of 
him,  and  his  head  resting  between  them.  Coccaro 
touched  him  lightly  on  the  shoulder.  "That's  all  right; 
that's  all  right,"  he  whispered.  "You  must  get  on 
your  things  now.  They'll  be  ringing  up  on  you  in  a 
minute.  You  mustn't  take  on  so.  I  know  how  you 
feel.  It's  a  long  time  we've  been  together,  Billy,  a 
long  time." 


107 


"SEDGWICK" 


"SEDGWICK" 

fVHEN  Sedgwick  first  came  to  me,  my  friends  said 
that  I  was  a  fool  to  take  on  a  servant  with  such  un- 
satisfactory references,  and  I  suppose  now,  in  a  way, 
that  they  were  right,  but  I  am  not  quite  sure.  For 
three  years  I  had  had  a  man  with  the  somewhat  daz- 
zling name  of  Tremaine,  and  a  more  consistent 
house-burglar  I  have  never  known ;  but  he  was  con- 
sistent. So  far  as  I  know,  he  confined  his  peculations 
to  jewelry,  which  I  never  wore,  such  as  stick-pins 
and  similar  junk  picked  up  at  weddings  and  Christ- 
mases;  black  and  white  ties,  suitable  for  evening 
wear,  and  Scotch  whiskey,  but  always  of  inferior 
brand.  I  think  Tremaine  must  have  had  a  very 
common  streak  in  him,  for  he  never  touched  my 
really  good  wines  or  liquors,  and  for  this  I  liked  him. 
Every  morning  at  eight  o'clock  he  let  himself  into 
111 


THE    STAGE    DOOR 

my  apartment,  laid  out  my  clothes,  and  prepared  my 
breakfast.  At  some  time  during  the  proceedings  I 
would  wake  up  and  say:  "How  is  it  outside?"  And 
if  it  was  a  bad,  blustering,  bitter  cold  day  he  would 
answer:  "Fine,  sir!"  and  lay  out  a  thin  suit,  and  if 
it  was  balmy  and  spring-like  he  would  shake  his  head 
and  say:  "Pretty  bad,  sir!"  and  get  out  a  heavy 
tweed  and  a  fur  overcoat.  However,  he  was  just  as 
consistent  about  this  as  he  was  about  his  robberies; 
so  I  always  went  to  the  window,  looked  for  myself, 
and  had  him  make  the  necessary  changes  before  he 
left  the  apartment. 

This  had  been  going  on  for  nearly  three  years,  when 
I  was  awakened  one  morning  by  the  usual  soft  foot- 
falls in  my  room,  and  I  rubbed  my  eyes,  cursed  the 
fact  that  I  was  a  workingman,  and  said:  "How  is  it 
outside?"  A  strange  voice  replied:  "It's  very  bad, 
sir — three  inches  of  snow."  I  looked  up  and  found 
an  entirely  unknown  man  brushing  my  derby  hat. 

"Who  the  devil  are  you  ?"  said  I. 

"I'm  Sedgwick.  Tremaine  is  sick,  and  he  sent 
me  in  his  place." 

"Is  Tremaine  very  sick?"  I  asked. 
112 


"  SEDGWICK  ' 

The  man  slowly  shook  his  head  and  answered 
in  a  most  lugubrious  voice:  "Very  sick,  very  sick, 
sir." 

In  two  days  it  seemed  as  if  Sedgwick  had  been 
with  me  always,  and  at  the  end  of  that  time  he  con- 
fessed that  Tremaine,  whom  he  had  but  recently  met 
at  a  servants'  club,  had  never  been  ill  at  all,  and  had 
simply  left  me  for  a  better  place. 

The  only  reference,  therefore,  that  my  new  servant 
had  was  that  of  a  thief  and  a  man  who  had  deceived 
me  after  three  years  of  pretty  good  treatment.  Of 
his  past  he  told  me  nothing,  and  yet  there  was  so 
much  about  him  that  I  liked  that  I  was  loath  to  let 
him  go.  He  was  tall,  thin,  loose-jointed,  lantern- 
jawed,  by  turns  fierce  and  sad  looking,  and  with  that 
perfect  knowledge  of  his  business  that  only  English- 
men of  a  certain  class  ever  seem  to  acquire.  He  ap- 
parently took  not  the  slightest  interest  in  me  or  my 
affairs,  but  his  honesty  was  beyond  suspicion.  How- 
ever superior  this  particular  kind  of  servant  may 
hold  himself  to  his  master,  I  have  never  known  one 
who  did  not  have  one  weak  spot — either  a  family 
affair  or,  more  often,  a  former  employer  whose  virt- 
113 


THE    STAGE    DOOR 

lies  he  always  took  pleasure  in  talking  about.  But 
it  was  not  so  with  Sedgwick.  He  never  mentioned 
a  former  employer,  a  place  where  he  had  lived,  nor  an 
incident  which  touched  on  his  past  life.  My  friends 
delighted  in  him  as  a  servant  and  a  man  of  mystery, 
but  always  pretended  to  be  fearful  of  leaving  me  alone 
with  him.  They  insisted  that  he  would  one  day 
probably  cut  my  throat.  Personally,  I  had  no  such 
fears,  as  he  seemed  to  me  a  rather  gentle,  middle- 
aged  person,  and  I  had  no  doubt  that  concealed 
somewhere  under  his  grim  visage  were  a  sympathetic 
soul  and  a  heart  of  gold.  To  me  he  was  like  some 
thoroughbred  bulldogs  I  have  known,  with  their 
legs  bowed,  their  eyes  glazed,  and  their  big  jaws 
undershot  and  vicious,  but  jaws  in  times  of  peace  that 
a  child  could  put  its  hand  between  without  fear  of 
hurt. 

Among  the  men  who  occasionally  dropped  in  dur- 
ing the  late  afternoon,  or  the  men  and  women  friends 
who  frequently  supped  at  my  apartment  after  the 
theatre,  Sedgwick,  apparently,  had  no  favorites,  and, 
what  was  still  more  unusual,  he  regarded  the  many 
photographs  of  the  many  women  friends  I  had  about 
114 


"  SEDGWICK  ' 

my  rooms  with  absolutely  equal  favor — or,  perhaps, 
it  was  disfavor.  In  all  my  experience  with  servants, 
he  was  the  only  one  who  did  not  have  an  undisguised 
admiration  for  a  particular  photograph  and  insist  on 
displaying  it  to  its  greatest  possible  advantage.  But 
none  of  my  beautiful  friends  seemed  to  appeal  to 
Sedgwick,  and  he  left  them  exactly  as  he  had  found 
them  in  the  days  of  Tremaine  or  as  I  had  since  rear- 
ranged them  according  to  my  changing  regard  for 
the  originals. 

All  of  this  was  true  for  the  first  six  months  of  his 
regime,  and  then  somewhere  (I  think  in  the  dusty 
depths  of  a  music-rack)  he  discovered  a  photograph 
which  I  had  forgotten  as  completely  as  I  had  the 
original.  I  found  it  one  morning  modestly  displayed 
on  a  corner  of  the  mantel  over  the  fireplace  in  my  sit- 
ting-room, and  for  a  month  in  silence  I  watched  it 
advance  in  prominence,  until  it  stood  side  by  side 
with  the  one  photograph  that  made  me  regret  that  I 
still  lived  in  bachelor  apartments  instead  of  a  real 
home.  It  was  a  picture  faded  by  time  and  soiled  by 
ill-usage,  never  having  risen  to  the  dignity  of  a  frame 
or  the  protecting  care  of  a  glass.  When  I  had  known 
115 


THE    STAGE    DOOR 

the  original,  years  before,  she  was  a  blonde  young 
woman,  of  Austrian  birth,  who,  with  a  number  of 
other  girls,  was  studying  music  at  Florence.  They 
all  lived  in  a  cheap  pension  on  the  old  side  of  the 
Arno,  and  were  rather  amusing  and  all  perfectly  se- 
cure in  the  belief  that  one  day  they  would  figure 
prominently  among  the  world's  greatest  opera  sing- 
ers. This  particular  young  blonde  person  I  had 
known  perhaps  a  little  better  than  the  others,  but  not 
much.  We  had  climbed  the  hill  to  San  Miniato  and 
looked  down  on  the  glories  of  Florence;  we  had 
bicycled  together  through  the  shaded  paths  of  the 
Cascine ;  side  by  side  we  had  enjoyed  the  trolley  ride 
to  Fiesole,  and  lunched  vis-a-vis  at  the  Aurora.  And 
one  fine  moonlight  night  we  had  stood  together  on 
the  balcony  of  her  pension  and  said  au  revoir,  and 
when  we  went  back  to  the  little  salon,  which  she 
shared  with  several  other  students,  she  had  written 
some  foolish  words  in  French  on  a  photograph  of 
herself  and  given  me  the  photograph.  Since  that 
day,  to  the  best  of  my  knowledge,  I  had  never  seen  nor 
heard  of  the  beautiful  blonde  Austrian  girl,  and  I 
must  confess  that  in  the  years  that  had  elapsed  my 
116 


"SEDGWICK  ' 

interest  in  her  had  faded  as  rapidly  and  as  surely  as 
had  her  picture. 

Not  until  the  photograph  had  reached  the  highest 
point  of  conspicuousness  to  which  it  could  possibly 
attain  did  I  pretend  to  notice  its  sudden  rise  among 
my  galaxy  of  international  beauties. 

"Sedgwick,"  I  said  one  morning,  "may  I  ask  why 
you  take  so  much  interest  in  Miss  Rose  Parness  ?  " 

When  Sedgwick  was  thoroughly  embarrassed  he 
took  on  a  sort  of  gray  putty  color — blushing  seemed 
to  be  an  unknown  accomplishment  to  him.  On  this 
occasion  he  turned  particularly  gray  and  cast  a  guilty 
glance  toward  the  photograph. 

"Cannot  even  a  servant  admire  a  great  artist?" 
he  asked.  "You  know,  of  course,  who  Miss  Parness 
is  now,  sir?" 

"Who — who  is  she?"  I  stammered.  It  was  with 
some  embarrassment  I  admitted  my  lack  of  knowl- 
edge, and  the  ignominy  of  my  ignorance  seemed  to 
wellnigh  overcome  the  valet. 

"She  is  the  great  singer,  Madame  Marie  Mon- 
te verde." 

117 


THE    STAGE    DOOR 

"Indeed!"  said  I,  and  I  raised  my  eyebrows  just 
as  high  as  I  could  in  polite  astonishment.  My  igno- 
rance in  regard  to  grand  opera  and  its  singers  was 
really  shocking,  but  even  I  had  heard  of  the  beautiful 
and  bewitching  Madame  Monteverde,  who,  I  under- 
stood, was  the  present  musical  pet  of  New  York. 

"She  is  a  great  artist,  sir" — and  his  glassy  eyes 
fairly  shone — "I  think  the  greatest  artist  in  all  the 
world — but  they  have  not  yet  given  her  the  oppor- 
tunity to  prove  it  in  America.  Ah,  sir,  if  you  could 
hear  her  Carmen  or  her  Mimi — Santuzza  she  has 
already  done  here — perhaps " 

"I  fear  not — I  so  seldom  go  to  the  opera.  I  knew 
Miss  Rose  Parness  as  a  student  in  Florence." 

"You  were  fortunate,  sir.  Is  there  anything  else?" 

In  answer  I  shook  my  head,  and  he  left  me. 

"So  that  is  it,"  I  said  to  myself,  and  grinned  with 
pleasure  at  the  fun  I  should  have  in  telling  my  friends 
that  Sedgwick,  after  all,  was  but  human  and  had  an 
undying  affection  for  no  less  a  person  than  the  new 
popular  soubrette  of  grand  opera. 

The  discovery  that  Madame  Monteverde  and  Rose 
Parness  were  one  and  the  same  person  did  not,  I 
118 


"  SEDGWICK  ' 

fear,  arouse  in  me  the  interest  which  Sedgwick  would 
have  liked.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  the  world  of  opera 
and  the  men  and  women  who  sing  in  it  are  objects  of 
which  I  know  little  and  care  less.  The  singers  and 
the  musicians,  their  men  and  women  secretaries, 
their  accompanists  and  the  little  crowd  of  music-mad 
admirers,  form  a  small  coterie  apart  and  talk  a  jargon 
of  which  I  am  wholly  ignorant.  I  had  often  seen  them 
lunching  at  a  certain  French  restaurant,  and  it  was 
amusing  enough  to  watch  them  pose  and  strut  and 
chatter  together  in  a  dozen  different  languages;  but 
I  was  quite  satisfied  to  be  but  a  humble  onlooker. 
Their  start,  as  well  as  their  whole  lives,  is,  after  all, 
founded  on  an  accident  of  birth.  God  gives  Brother 
James  a  husky  frame,  and  he  plows  the  fields  for  a 
living;  God  gives  Brother  William  an  extra  wide 
throat,  and  Brother  William  makes  a  fortune  every 
time  he  makes  a  moderate  use  of  it.  There  is  nothing 
traditional  or  hereditary  about  an  opera  singer — pro- 
fessionally, their  family  tree  is  a  branchless  trunk 
and  their  crest  a  larynx  rampant. 

Not,  however,  to  appear  too  indifferent  in  the  eyes 
of  rny  servant,  I  allowed  the  photograph  to  remain 
119 


THE    STAGE    DOOR 

where  he  had  put  it,  and  probably  never  should  have 
thought  of  it  again,  had  I  not  received  news  that  my 
Cousin  Muriel  was  about  to  pay  her  annual  visit  to 
the  great  city. 

Of  all  the  relatives  and  dear  friends  who  drop  in 
on  me  during  the  year,  Cousin  Muriel  is  the  most 
welcome.  All  I  have  to  do  is  to  buy  opera  seats  for 
her  and  the  girl  friend  with  whom  she  stays,  and 
take  them  once  or  twice  to  the  restaurant  where  the 
singers  eat,  so  that  they  can  see  them  at  close  range. 
This  accomplished,  she  is  perfectly  happy,  and  re- 
turns to  her  bucolic  home  and  tells  her  rustic  friends 
that  I  am  the  ideal  host  and  perfect  cousin. 

It  so  happened  that  while  I  was  reading  the  letter 
announcing  her  early  arrival,  I  happened  to  glance  up 
and  my  eye  caught  sight  of  the  photograph  of  Rose 
Parness.  It  gave  me  a  wonderful  inspiration,  and  I 
fairly  chuckled  aloud.  I  would  give  a  supper  party  to 
the  friend  of  my  youthful  days  at  Florence,  and 
Cousin  Muriel  should  meet  and  talk  to  a  real  opera 
singer.  Among  my  friends  there  was  no  question 
that  one  Howard  Danby  was  the  logical  choice  to 
arrange  the  details.  Danby  was  on  the  staff  of  an 
120 


'"  SEDGWICK  " 

evening  newspaper  and  one  of  my  intimates  for  the 
half  of  every  year.  During  these  six  months  he  re- 
ported baseball  games  and  fires  and  an  occasional 
criminal  case;  but  when  the  opera  season  came  along 
he  assumed  the  title  of  Assistant  Musical  Editor,  let 
his  hair  grow  over  his  collar,  shook  out  the  camphor 
balls  from  his  dress-suit,  and  spent  his  afternoons  at 
tea  with  the  lady  opera  singers  and  his  late  nights 
sitting  about  German  restaurants,  drinking  beer 
with  musical  conductors  who  looked  like  French 
barbers,  or  the  male  singers  who  looked  like  Spanish 
bull-fighters,  and  low  comedians  from  the  Comedie 
Fran9aise.  According  to  Danby,  the  last  man  I  had 
seen  him  drinking  beer  with  was  always  "the  great- 
est tenor"  or  "the  best  barytone"  or  "the  last  word 
on  Wagner,"  or,  at  least,  "the  husband  of  the  coming 
only  soprano,"  or  "the  accompanist  of  Puccini's  own 
ideal  of  Madame  Butterfly."  What  I  considered 
operatic  geese  were  all  swans  to  Danby,  and  for  six 
beautiful  months  in  each  year  he  fairly  reveled  in  the 
smoke-laden  atmosphere  of  garlic,  high  C's,  and 
"My  interpretation  of  the  role." 

I  explained  the  situation  to  him,  and  he  was  de- 
121 


THE    STAGE    DOOR 

lighted  with  the  commission.  Of  course,  Madame 
Monteverde  must  be  seen  first  and  reminded  of  the 
old  days  at  Florence,  and,  when  her  acceptance  was 
gained,  Danby  assured  me  that  the  rest  would  be 
easy.  A  few  days  after  I  had  first  suggested  the  idea, 
and  just  as  Cousin  Muriel  was  about  to  arrive,  I  re- 
ceived a  letter  from  Danby,  of  which  this  is  a  copy: 

It's  all  arranged  for  Thursday  night  of  next  week,  at 
your  rooms.  Madame  Monteverde  remembered  you  per- 
fectly, and  your  little  affair  in  the  student  days,  but  I  think 
I  would  call  before  Thursday,  or  leave  a  card,  anyhow. 
Very  touchy,  these  big  artists.  I  have  got  acceptances  from 
Merkel,  who  understudies  the  bass  roles;  Cossi,  a  tenor, 
who  will  set  them  crazy  if  he  ever  gets  the  chance;  and 
Count  Morgenstern,  an  Austrian  amateur  pianist,  bon 
vivant,  friend  of  all  the  singers,  and  I  think  a  little  epris, 
just  now,  with  your  guest  of  honor.  Besides  Madame 
Monteverde  and  your  cousin,  we  will  have  Madame  Zurla, 
a  great  Senta — that  is,  if  they  do  "  The  Flying  Dutchman" 
at  all  this  season — Madame  Czermak,  a  light  contralto,  but 
very  chic  and  pretty,  and  last,  but  not  least,  De  Lisle,  a 
great  favorite  at  the  Opera  Comique  in  Paris.  She  is  staying 
here  in  the  hope  of  getting  a  chance  at "  Thai's  "  or  some  of 
the  undressed  roles.  I  think,  as  a  party,  it  is  pretty  hard  to 
122 


'"  SEDGWICK  " 

beat.  Of  course,  there  are  a  few  big  names  not  on  the  list, 
but  the  average  I  consider  high,  and  your  cousin  should  get 
a  typical  glimpse  of  the  great  artists  at  their  ease.  Au 
revoir. 

DANBY. 

It  seemed  to  me  that  there  was  a  very  serious  lack 
of  "big  names"  on  the  list,  and  that,  with  the  excep- 
tion of  Madame  Monteverde,  my  future  guests  had 
a  good  deal  to  accomplish  before  they  could  be 
ranked  with  the  truly  great.  However,  I  was  probably 
a  prejudiced  party,  and  the  outlook  loomed  Bohe- 
mian enough  to  at  least  please  Cousin  Muriel. 

The  great  night  arrived  at  last.  It  was  bitterly  cold 
outside,  a  blustering  wind  whistled  around  the  cor- 
ners and  the  streets  lay  deep  in  snow,  all  of  which 
made  my  apartment,  with  the  blazing  wood  fires  and 
warm,  heavy  hangings,  seem  all  the  more  cosey  and 
attractive.  I  had  made  a  point  of  not  telling  Sedg- 
wick  who  my  guests  were  to  be,  and  was  not  a  little 
curious  to  see  how  he  would  behave  in  the  actual 
presence  of  his  divinity. 

Madame  Monteverde,  in  a  wonderful  spreading 
123 


THE    STAGE    DOOR 

pink  hat  and  a  sable  coat,  which  with  the  collar 
turned  up  reached  from  her  eyes  to  her  feet,  was  the 
first  to  arrive.  Sedgwick,  I  am  quite  sure,  did  not 
recognize  her  when  she  came  in,  as,  after  opening  the 
door,  he  stood  back  of  the  singer,  waiting  to  take  her 
coat.  The  girl's  cheeks  were  flushed  scarlet  with  the 
cold,  her  eyes  were  shining  brilliantly,  and  there  was 
a  smile  on  her  lips  as  she  turned  toward  him.  When 
he  saw  her  face,  his  hands,  which  were  held  out  to 
take  the  coat,  trembled  and  his  arms  dropped  slowly 
to  his  sides.  His  sallow  face  turned  grayer  than  I  had 
ever  seen  it  before,  but  what  interested  me  the  most 
was  that  the  smile  suddenly  vanished  from  the  face 
of  Madame  Monte verde.  For  a  moment  she  looked 
him  evenly  in  the  eyes,  and  then  the  servant,  bowing 
his  head  so  low  that  it  almost  touched  his  breast, 
mechanically  held  out  his  hands  and  took  the  coat. 

It  was  a  curious  incident,  and  I  was  glad  that  I  had 
been  its  only  witness.  It  seemed  possible,  too,  that  at 
last  I  was  to  learn  something  about  the  past  of  the 
melancholy  Sedgwick. 

I  took  Madame  Monteverde  into  the  library,  pre- 
sented her  to  Cousin  Muriel,  and  returned  to  greet 
124 


"  SEDGWICK'! 

my  other  guests.  They  all  arrived,  looking  very 
much  the  same — the  men  swathed  in  greatcoats  and 
yards  of  silk  muffled  about  their  throats,  and  the 
women  completely  concealed  in  fur  wraps.  Danby 
assured  me,  between  arrivals,  that  I  should  consider 
myself  extremely  lucky  that  they  ever  consented  to 
come  out  on  such  a  night.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  I  had 
been  wondering  all  along  why  they  came  at  all — 
whether  it  was  that  they  feared  the  criticisms  of 
Danby's  paper,  or  whether  it  was  the  prospect  of  a 
good  supper.  But  once  relieved  of  their  outer  gar- 
ments, they  seemed  to  be  extremely  glad  to  be  where 
they  were,  and  went  about  shaking  hands — both 
hands  at  once — blowing  kisses,  clicking  their  heels, 
and  bowing  low  to  Cousin  Muriel,  and  chattering 
their  happy  greetings  like  a  lot  of  monkeys  all  at  one 
time  and  in  at  least  six  different  languages. 

Madame  Czermak — whose  name  I  did  not  pro- 
nounce twice  in  the  same  way  during  the  supper — 
looked  rather  chic  in  a  very  decollete  gown,  and,  as 
we  had  no  formal  singing,  it  did  not  matter  how  light 
her  contralto  voice  really  was;  Madame  Zurla  ap- 
peared a  ponderous  person,  who  talked  constantly 
125 


THE    STAGE    DOOR 

of  her  happy  summer  home  at  Siena  and  of  a  son 
who  was  serving  his  year  in  the  army;  De  Lisle  was 
a  dashing  brunette,  powdered  quite  white,  who,  when 
she  was  not  chucking  some  one  under  the  chin  with 
a  somewhat  soiled  lace  fan,  smoked  a  great  many 
cigarettes  between  courses  and  after  supper  drank 
cup  after  cup  of  black  coffee.  In  all  ways  she  seemed 
worthy  of  the  scandals  that  cluster  about  the  little 
opera-house  in  Paris  from  which  she  came.  Her  con- 
versation, if  no  more  elevating  than  that  of  the  other 
guests,  was  at  least  different,  for  while  they  talked 
only  of  what  they  sang,  she  never  stopped  telling  me 
about  her  wardrobe,  or  rather  the  lack  of  it.  The 
guest  of  honor — Madame  Monteverde — I  found 
much  changed  since  the  old  days  at  Florence.  Al- 
though still  a  girl  in  years,  she  was  a  woman  now  in 
the  ways  of  the  world;  the  unsought  knowledge,  the 
hard  work,  the  grueling  effort  to  overcome  the  obsta- 
cles in  her  way,  had  etched  the  telltale  lines  and 
shadows  on  the  innocent,  pretty  face  I  once  knew. 
Gracious  as  she  was,  there  was  a  noticeable  trace  of 
the  "professional  artist"  about  her,  and  at  times 
when  she  assumed  an  air  of  diablerie  it  was  hard  for 
126 


"  SEDGWICK  " 

me  to  believe  that  this  was  the  girl  I  had  known  as  a 
student  in  the  little  pension  on  the  wrong  side  of  the 
Arno.  But  yet,  beneath  it  all,  there  was  a  certain 
sweet  simplicity,  a  subtle  appeal  which  must  have 
carried  across  the  footlights  and  which  I  could  well 
understand  had  made  her  the  idol  that  she  was. 

So  far  as  the  men  were  concerned,  they  all  looked 
entirely  different  from  each  other,  and  yet,  I  am  sure, 
possessed  exactly  the  same  insides.  Merkel,  the  bass, 
had  a  tremendous  frame,  a  face  not  unlike  that  of  a 
horse,  and  a  wonderful  shock  of  tawny  hair;  Cossi 
was  short  and  very  stout,  with  glossy  black  ringlets, 
and  talked  as  high  as  he  sang;  Count  Morgenstern, 
the  Austrian,  was  straight  and  blonde,  with  a  little 
yellow  mustache  turned  sharply  up  at  the  ends — 
apparently  a  common  type  of  adventurer  on  the 
Continent,  with  much  manner  and  no  manners,  a 
profound  knowledge  of  the  world  and  Who's  Who; 
by  profession  an  ex-army  officer,  and,  I  had  heard, 
beyond  his  winnings  at  the  gambling  clubs,  abso- 
lutely without  means  of  support.  Three  more  differ- 
ent-looking men  could  not  well  be  imagined,  and  yet, 
I  know,  if  their  minds  and  souls  and  hearts  could  be 
127 


THE    STAGE    DOOR 

analyzed,  it  would  be  found  that  all  three  contained 
precisely  the  same  elements  and  in  exactly  the  same 
proportions.  They  all  wore  baggy  dress-suits,  with 
tape  sewed  on  wherever  it  was  possible,  frilled  shirt 
fronts,  and  a  great  deal  of  unnecessary  jewelry — 
principally  turquoises.  Merkel  seemed  to  enjoy  his 
supper  much  more  than  the  others,  but  yet  found 
ample  time  to  say  the  most  frothy,  inane  things  in  a 
sepulchral  voice  to  the  fascinating  De  Lisle,  while 
Cossi,  who  did  not  really  seem  to  care  to  whom  he 
talked,  or  what  he  said,  chatted  merrily  in  his  piping 
voice  to  the  ponderous  and  motherly  Madame  Zurla. 
Morgenstern  divided  his  time  between  Cousin  Mu- 
riel and  the  unpronounceable  Czermak;  but  it  easily 
could  be  seen  that  Danby  was  right,  and  such  mind 
and  heart  as  the  blonde  ex-officer  had  were  the  sole 
property  of  Madame  Monteverde. 

If  unceasing  chatter,  hilarious  laughter,  snatches 
of  light  song  startlingly  well  sung,  cleared  plates, 
rows  of  emptied  bottles  on  the  sideboard,  constitute 
a  successful  supper  party,  then,  I  think,  my  supper 
party  to  Madame  Monteverde  for  Cousin  Muriel 
was  a  success.  Of  the  culinary  part  of  the  entertain- 
128 


"  SEDGWICK  * 

ment  I  felt  justly  proud,  and  Sedgwick,  once  recov- 
ered from  his  first  shock  of  meeting  with  his  divinity, 
served  the  supper  superbly.  Of  one  fact  I  am  quite 
certain;  by  the  time  the  coffee  was  brought  on  I  had 
as  my  guests  the  greatest  of  all  great  opera  singers  of 
all  the  world,  and  the  only  reason  this  fact  was  not 
known  universally,  was  because  all  impresarios  had 
wooden  heads.  I  am  sure  of  this,  because  my  guests 
told  me  the  facts  over  and  over  again.  I  really  think 
Madame  Monteverde  enjoyed  talking  over  the  old 
days  at  Florence,  and  Cousin  Muriel's  eyes  fairly 
glistened  as  she  leaned  well  over  the  table,  fearing 
she  would  miss  some  pearl  of  thought,  and  at  the 
same  time  inhaling  great  draughts  of  cigarette  smoke 
and  patchouli  into  her  pure  pink  lungs,  in  the  honest 
belief  that  it  was  artistic  atmosphere.  When  Sedg- 
wick had  served  the  coffee  and  left  the  tray  of  cordials 
on  the  table,  he  retired  to  the  adjoining  room,  to 
await  the  departure  of  my  guests.  The  door  had  no 
sooner  closed  behind  his  back  than  Madame  Mon- 
teverde asked  what  I  knew  about  my  servant  and 
how  he  had  happened  to  come  to  me.  After  the  little 
incident  I  had  witnessed  in  the  hallway,  I  cannot 
129 


THE    STAGE    DOOR 

say  that  her  somewhat  pointed  question  surprised 
me. 

"As  a  matter  of  fact,"  I  said,  "I  really  know 
nothing.  He  is  what  you,  in  your  profession,  would 
call  an  'understudy.'  He  came  to  me  almost  a  year 
since  to  take  temporarily  the  place  of  a  man  I  used 
to  have,  and  he  has  been  with  me  ever  since.  The 
only  thing  I  know  about  him  is  that  his  one  interest 
in  life  seems  to  be  you.  What  do  you  know  ?" 

Madame  Monte verde  smiled,  shrugged  her  pretty 
shoulders,  and  taking  a  cigarette  from  the  table, 
rolled  it  between  her  thumb  and  forefinger.  "I  never 
really  met  him — strictly  speaking — but  once  before," 
she  said  slowly,  "and  on  that  occasion  I  had  him 
thrown  into  jail."  The  buzzing  about  the  table  sud- 
denly ceased,  and  my  guests  sat  forward  on  their 
chairs.  For  the  moment  Madame  Monteverde  had 
their  undivided  attention. 

"Funny!"  said  Morgenstern,  with  a  sort  of  propri- 
etary air,  "I  never  heard  of  that.  Was  he  a  robber?" 

The  singer  shook  her  head.  "Not  at  all.  As  a 
matter  of  fact,  it  was  all  my  fault;  he  was  quite  inno- 
cent. It  was  two  seasons  ago,  when  I  was  singing  at 
130 


1  It  was  two  seasons  ago,  when  I  was  singing  at  Monte  Carlo." 


"  SEDGWICK  " 

Monte  Carlo.  Every  day  I  used  to  receive  a  letter 
from  an  unknown  admirer;  at  first  he  was  simply 
fulsomely  flattering,  and  then  he  began  threatening 
me  because  I  refused  to  answer  his  letters,  and  finally 
he  said  he  was  going  to  shoot  me.  We  called  in  the 
police,  and  the  only  man  I  could  suggest  as  the  pos- 
sible writer  of  the  letters  was  this  servant  of  yours. 
Almost  ever  since  I  have  been  known  at  all  he  has 
followed  me.  When  I  first  went  to  sing  at  Milan,  he 
was  there,  and  afterward  I  saw  him  at  Paris,  and 
later  at  London,  when  I  sang  at  Co  vent  Garden. 
Nearly  every  night  I  would  find  him  at  the  stage 
door,  but  he  was  very  quiet — never  came  near  me — 
just  stood  in  the  crowd,  if  there  was  a  crowd,  and 
gazed  at  me  with  those  big,  glassy  eyes  of  his.  And  on 
bad,  rainy  nights,  when  the  streets  were  deserted, 
there  he  would  be,  pretending  that  it  was  not  I  he 
was  waiting  for.  But  goodness!  there  was  no  mistak- 
ing why  he  was  there.  Really,  he  used  to  look  at  me 
sometimes  in  a  sort  of  hungry  way,  and  then  I  never 
felt  safe  until  they  had  closed  the  door  of  my  carriage. 
And  then  sometimes  I  thought  I  would  speak  to  him, 
because  he  seemed  so  miserable,  and  his  clothes  were 
131 


THE    STAGE    DOOR 

often  very  poor  and  worn,  and  he  looked  starved  and 
so  in  need  of  a  kind  word — or,  perhaps,  a  little  help." 

Little  Cossi  leaned  his  elbows  on  the  table,  and 
breathing  on  his  monocle,  rubbed  it  with  his  silk 
handkerchief.  "And  yet  you  had  him  put  in  jail!" 
he  piped  in  his  high  voice. 

Madame  Monteverde  looked  up  and  smiled  at  the 
pudgy  little  tenor.  "Yes,  indirectly  I  had  him  put  in 
jail.  I  told  the  police  how  he  had  followed  me  from 
city  to  city,  and  they,  of  course,  were  quite  sure  that 
he  was  the  man.  The  same  day  I  got  a  note  from  my 
admirer,  saying  I  must  meet  him  that  night  back  of 
the  Casino,  after  the  rooms  had  closed.  It  was  ar- 
ranged that  I  should  start  for  the  rendezvous,  but 
that  the  police  should,  of  course,  always  be  near  me. 
They  shadowed  this  man  of  yours  during  the  even- 
ing, and  when  they  saw  him  leave  the  rooms  after  I 
did,  and  apparently  follow  me,  they  arrested  him. 
Just  as  they  were  busy  doing  this,  the  real  man — who 
was  probably  a  perfectly  harmless  crank — jumped  up 
from  behind  a  hedge  and  ran  down  the  hill  through 
the  gardens.  One  of  the  policemen  followed,  but  lost 
him  in  the  crowd  at  the  railway  station." 
132 


"  SEDGWICK' 

"And  then!"  Cousin  Muriel  gasped. 

"Then — well,  oh,  then,  the  toy  policemen  had  to 
put  somebody  in  jail,  so  they  locked  up  this  poor  soul 
for  the  night.  There  was  nothing  against  him,  and  nat- 
urally, they  had  to  let  him  go  the  next  morning.  I  felt 
terribly  about  it,  but  I  only  saw  him  once  afterward." 

"Did  you  speak  to  him?"  I  asked. 

Madame  Monteverde  shrugged  her  pretty  shoul- 
ders. "I  was  walking  down  the  hill  to  Monaco  a  few 
days  later,  and  met  him  coming  up.  You  remember 
there  is  only  one  sidewalk,  and  that  is  rather  narrow. 
I  stopped,  but  the  moment  he  saw  I  recognized  him 
and  was  going  to  speak,  he  stepped  into  the  street 
and  stood  with  his  hand  to  his  cap  at  a  sort  of  salute. 
So  I  simply  bowed  and  walked  on.  That  is  the  last 
time  I  saw  him  until  to-night." 

Madame  Monteverde  drew  her  scarlet  lips  into  a 
straight  line  and  threw  the  unlit  cigarette  she  had 
been  holding  back  on  the  table.  "And,  you  know, 
the  curious  thing  about  it  all  is,"  she  said,  "that  I 
believe  he  is  absolutely  sane." 

The  singer  glanced  at  a  little  diamond  watch  she 
wore  on  her  corsage,  and  rose  from  the  table. 
133 


THE    STAGE    DOOR 

"I  don't  want  to  break  up  the  party,"  she  added, 
"  but  it's  much  later  than  I  thought." 

The  rest  of  the  guests  rose,  too,  and  we  went  into 
the  library,  where  Sedgwick  had  brought  the  coats 
and  wraps. 

With  many  effusive  thanks  and  protestations  of 
undying  regard,  the  party  made  their  adieux.  I  was 
much  pleased  that  my  little  supper  had  been  a  suc- 
cess and  the  evening  had  passed  so  happily,  and  I 
was  glad,  too,  to  have  heard  something  of  my  melan- 
choly servant.  Cousin  Muriel  and  the  other  women, 
with  the  exception  of  Madame  Monteverde,  had  put 
on  their  furs  and  gone  out  into  the  hallway.  Sedgwick 
had  retired  to  the  far  end  of  the  room  and  was  stand- 
ing by  the  window;  the  rest  of  us  were  ranged  about 
Madame  Monteverde,  watching  Count  Morgenstern 
put  on  her  wrap.  I  think  the  fool  must  have  been  a 
little  befuddled,  for  after  he  had  once  put  the  heavy 
fur  mantle  about  her,  he  lowered  one  corner  of  it  and 
deliberately  kissed  her  on  the  bare  shoulder.  Even 
in  the  dimly-lit  room  it  was  easy  to  see  the  blood  rush 
to  the  girl's  face.  I  looked  back  of  me  and  saw  Sedg- 
134 


"  SEDGWICK' 

wick  bending  almost  double  and  ready  to  spring. 
It  was  too  late  to  do  more  than  jump  in  between  him 
and  Morgenstern,  and  the  next  moment  the  servant 
came  crashing  into  us.  With  a  cry,  Madame  Mon- 
teverde  ran  into  the  hallway  and  slammed  the  door 
behind  her.  Sedgwick  slowly  rose  to  his  feet  and 
stood  staring  at  Morgenstern,  his  long  arms  and  big 
hands  hanging  before  him,  looking  more  like  a  huge 
gorilla  than  a  man.  At  the  moment  I  would  not  have 
given  a  farthing  for  the  life  of  Morgenstern.  Twice 
Sedgwick  tried  to  speak,  but  the  words  died  in  his 
throat,  and  then  suddenly  he  seemed  to  find  his 
voice,  and  he  cried  out: 

"You  cur!  You  blackguard!  You've  insulted  my 
child — my  own  child,  do  you  hear,  and  you've  got  to 
answer  to  me — to  me!" 

Morgenstern  slowly  stepped  back  toward  the  wall, 
and  Merkel  and  Cossi  closed  in  in  front  of  him.  I 
grabbed  Danby  by  the  arm  and  pushed  him  toward 
the  door. 

"Start  those  women  home!"  I  said.  "You'd  better 
look  out  for  Monteverde,  and,  for  the  love  of  Heaven, 
don't  tell  her  what  this  man  said!" 
135 


Sedgwick  backed  a  few  feet  away  from  the  little 
group  of  foreigners,  but  not  for  one  moment  did  he 
take  his  eyes  from  the  white  face  of  Morgenstern.  I 
knew  that  this  time  he  would  reach  his  man,  and  I 
stood  aside  and  watched  him.  With  his  left  arm  he 
knocked  over  Merkel  and  Cossi  as  if  they  had  been 
a  couple  of  wooden  tenpins,  and  almost  at  the  same 
moment  whipped  his  big  right  hand  across  Morgen- 
stern's  face,  and  raised  a  welt  that  looked  as  if  the 
man's  forehead  had  been  cut  with  a  wire  thong.  For 
a  moment  the  lithe,  straight  figure  of  the  Austrian 
wavered,  and  then  crumpled  up  and  fell  back  into 
a  cabinet  filled  with  glass.  Cossi  and  Merkel  stooped 
over  to  see  just  how  badly  their  friend  was  hurt,  and 
Morgenstern  lay  there  among  the  broken  glassware, 
moaning  and  whining  like  a  starved  cat. 

I  looked  at  Sedgwick  and  nodded  toward  the  far 
end  of  the  room.  He  shrugged  his  heavy  shoulders, 
and,  with  a  last  look  at  Morgenstern,  moved  away. 

With  the  help  of  the  two  singers,  I  dragged  the 

Austrian  into  my  bedroom,  bound  up  his  wound  as 

best  I  could,  and  packed  him  off  in  a  cab  to  his  hotel, 

where  I  telephoned  to  have  a  doctor  waiting  for  him. 

136 


"  SEDGWICK  ' 

I  returned  to  the  apartment  and  found  Sedgwick 
in  the  library,  where  I  had  left  him.  He  had  pulled 
back  the  curtains  and  stood  looking  out  on  the  snow- 
covered  streets.  I  shut  the  door  with  a  snap,  and  he 
slowly  turned  his  big  ungainly  frame  toward  me. 

"You  look  pretty  white,"  I  said.  "You'd  better 
take  a  drink  of  something." 

"I  am  discharged  ?"  he  asked. 

"Yes,  you  are  discharged." 

The  man  bowed,  walked  over  to  a  sideboard,  and 
gulped  down  a  big  drink  of  neat  brandy.  I  sat  down 
at  my  desk  and  lit  a  cigar. 

"Do  you  know  how  much  I  owe  you  ?"  I  asked. 

He  put  up  his  hand,  as  if  by  way  of  protest,  and 
slowly  shook  his  head.  The  fire  had  gone  as  quickly 
as  it  had  come,  and  left  only  the  gray  face  and  the 
meaningless  eyes. 

"I  don't  suppose  there  is  anything  you  want  to 
say?"  I  asked,  and  turned  toward  the  desk. 

"Yes,  there  is  something  I  should  like  to  say,  now 
I  am  no  longer  in  your  service." 

I  turned  back  again  to  the  putty-colored  face. 
"Won't  you  sit  down  ?" 

137 


THE    STAGE    DOOR 

My  ex- valet  shook  his  head.  "No,  I'd  rather  stand 
— it  won't  take  long.  I'm  going  to  tell  you  this,  be- 
cause you  were  the  only  gentleman  who  was  willing 
to  take  a  chance  with  me.  You  don't  know  the  kind 
of  jobs  a  man  is  reduced  to  when  he  has  no  refer- 
ences, and  is  up  against  it  and  can't  stay  put  in  one 
place!  You  took  me  up  and  pretty  near  made  a  man 
of  me.  This  is  the  first  home  I  have  seen  in  a  long 
time." 

"That  is  hardly  a  reason,"  I  suggested,  "for  beat- 
ing my  guests  into  pulp." 

He  paid  no  heed  to  my  remark,  but  walked  over  to 
where  I  sat  and  rested  one  of  his  big  hands  on  the 
desk  and  looked  down  at  me.  He  began  the  story  in 
a  perfectly  even  voice,  without  any  apparent  animus 
or  feeling  of  any  kind  toward  any  one: 

"I  went  to  Vienna  when  I  was  a  very  young  man. 
My  father  was  a  clergyman  in  Lincolnshire,  with  six 
children,  and  I  was  put  to  work  in  the  bank  in  the 
little  town  where  we  lived,  and  I  couldn't  stand  the 
sight  of  so  much  money.  I  was  very  young,  and  weak, 
too,  and  when  I  took  the  money  I  got  away  to  Vienna. 
138 


"  SEDGWICK  " 

It  really  was  not  very  much  money,  and  I  heard 
afterward  my  father  fixed  it  up  somehow;  and  for 
that,  and  I  suppose  to  avoid  scandal  at  the  bank, 
they  let  me  stay  where  I  was.  I  had  a  good  education 
and  spoke  several  languages,  and,  with  the  money 
I  had,  I  got  along  pretty  well  and  made  some 
good  friends.  One  of  these  kept  a  big  store  and 
was  quite  rich.  I  fell  in  love  with  his  daughter  and 
she  cared  for  me,  but  the  father — old  Parness — did 
not  like  me  as  a  son-in-law.  So  we  ran  away  and 
got  married,  and  her  family  shut  their  door  against 
her " 

For  a  few  moments  Sedgwick  hesitated  and  opened 
and  closed  the  hand  that  lay  on  the  desk,  and,  while 
his  eyes  seemed  to  be  looking  into  mine,  I  knew  that 
they  were  looking  through  me  to  a  time  many  years 
past. 

"For  one  year,"  he  began  again,  "we  were  very 
happy — both  of  us  very  happy.  It  was  hard  on  her 
because  we  were  poor  and  she  had  always  had  every- 
thing. I  got  a  job  as  a  clerk  in  a  hotel,  where  I  could 
interpret  for  the  tourists.  And  then  our  girl — our 
little  girl  Rosa — was  born,  and  what  should  have 
139 


THE    STAGE    DOOR 

been  our  greatest  happiness  was  the  end  of  it  all. 
Her  family  offered  to  take  my  wife  back  if  she  would 
leave  me,  and  she  was  very  ill  and  I  had  so  little  to 
offer  her  and  to  Rosa — not  even  a  decent  name — for 
the  story  of  the  bank  had  already  come  back  to  us 
several  times.  I  believe — I  am  sure  now — that  my 
wife  would  have  in  time  returned  to  me,  but — but  she 
did  not  live  so  very  long  after  that.  And  then  her 
family  came  with  an  offer  to  adopt  Rosa  and  educate 
her  and  to  do  everything  that  money  could  do  to 
make  her  happy  and  protect  her,  and,  in  face  of  all 
this,  I  could  offer  her  but  a  home  in  the  hotel  where 
I  was  an  under-clerk " 

The  man  hesitated  and  looked  down  at  me,  as  if 
asking  permission  to  go  on,  so  I  nodded  and  he 
went  on : 

"And  although  I  could  not  see  her  or  speak  to  her, 
I  always  knew  something  of  what  she  was  doing.  I 
heard  of  her  going  to  Florence,  and  then,  after  her 
success  at  Milan,  everything  was  quite  different,  be- 
cause she  belonged  to  the  world  and  I  could  go  to 
see  her  like  every  one  else.  That  has  been  my  life, 
sir,  to  follow  when  I  could  and  sit  up  in  the  gallery 
140 


Murgeiistern  lay  there  among  the  broken  glassware. 


"SEDGWICK' 

the  nights  she  sang,  and  listen  to  her  and  to  see  her 
and  to  hear  the  crowds  applaud  and  sometimes  cheer 
her,  and  bring  her  out  before  the  curtain  again  and 
again.  I  tell  you,  they  love  her — it's  not  only  the  won- 
derful voice,  but  it's  the  girl  they  love.  And  very 
often  I  used  to  wait  at  the  stage-door  and  in  front  of 
her  hotel  and  see  her  come  out,  dressed  up  as  she 
was  to-night  at  supper,  and  watch  her  get  into  her 
carriage."  And  then,  for  the  first  time,  I  saw  Sedg- 
wick's  features  relax  into  what  on  any  other  face 
would  have  been  a  smile. 

"And  do  you  know,  sir,"  he  said,  "that  one  night 
at  Monte  Carlo  they  had  me  arrested  and  put  me  in 
jail  for  following  her !  They  thought  I  meant  harm  to 
Rosa — to  my  own  child  1" 

"And  Morgenstern  ? "  I  asked. 

The  smile  faded  from  his  face  and  he  rubbed  his 
coat-sleeve  slowly  across  his  forehead. 

"I  don't  know,"  he  said,  "I  don't  know — these 
women  have  so  little  sense.  He  has  been  following  her 
for  two  years  now;  he  is  a  blackguard,  trying  to  marry 
her  for  her  money — an  adventurer-^-you  could  tell 
that.  I  know  that  he  was  thrown  out  of  a  club  in 
141 


THE    STAGE    DOOR 

Paris  for  turning  the  king  too  often  at  ecarte.  I  tell 
you " 

The  man  suddenly  stopped  talking,  and  a  curious, 
confused  look  came  into  his  eyes. 

"My  God!"  he  whispered,  "I  never  thought  of 
that.  Do  you  think  they  would  tell  her?" 

"Tell  her?"  I  repeated. 

"Yes,  tell  her  what  I  said  when  I  lost  my  head 
there — tell  her  that  I  said  she  was  my  own  child !  Do 
you  know  what  that  means — do  you  know  that  I  can 
never  go  near  her  or  let  her  see  me  again?"  He 
grasped  my  arm  in  his  big  hand,  and  stared  into  my 
eyes.  "Tell  me,"  he  whispered,  "will  they  tell  her?" 

"From  the  way  I  heard  them  talk  to-night,"  I 
said,  "I  believe  that  crowd  would  tell  anything." 

Sedgwick  let  go  the  grip  on  my  arm  and  walked 
slowly  back  to  the  window.  For  a  few  moments  he 
stood  with  his  big  back  silhouetted  against  the  long 
frosted  panes  of  glass,  and  then  he  turned  again  and 
faced  the  room. 

"But  after  all,"  he  said,  "I  can  still  see  her  on  the 
stage.  I  can  see  her  and  hear  her,  and  when  they  cheer 
142 


"  SEDGWICK  " 

her,  and  she  comes  out  and  bows  and  smiles  at  them, 
and  they  shout  and  throw  their  bouquets  to  her,  I  can 
say  to  myself  that  that  is  my  child — after  all  I  have 
done  something.  For  that  is  something,  sir,  don't  you 
think,  to  give  a  great  singer  to  the  world  ?" 

"Yes,"  I  said,  "much  more  than  most  of  us  do. 
But,  after  all,  what  if  they  should  tell  her  ?  Why  not 
let  me  tell  her?" 

The  man  looked  at  me  as  if  he  could  not  quite 
understand  the  meaning  of  my  words.  "Tell  her!"  he 
repeated,  "tell  Madame  Marie  Monteverde  that  her 
father  is  a  broken-down  servant!  Ask  her  to  recog- 
nize me  as  I  am  after  more  than  twenty  years!"  He 
spread  out  the  palms  of  his  hands  toward  me  and 
looked  down  at  his  own  gaunt,  ungainly  frame.  "  Not 
that,"  he  said,  and  it  seemed  as  if  he  was  talking 
only  to  himself.  "I  must  be  getting  away  now.  I'm 
sorry  to  go,  but  she  does  not  leave  for  Paris  before 
the  spring,  and  by  then " 

The  electric  bell  at  my  front  door  rang  out  through 

the  silent  rooms,  and  so  shrill  and  unexpected  was  it 

at  that  hour  that  I  unconsciously  started  to  my  feet. 

I  looked  at  Sedgwick  and  found  him  with  his  arms 

143 


THE    STAGE    DOOR 

hanging  at  his  side,  the  palms  still  held  outward,  and 
his  eyes  staring  straight  ahead  of  him.  I  went  out  into 
the  hallway  and  opened  the  front  door.  In  the  dimly 
lit  corridor  I  saw  my  friend  Danby,  and  back  of  him 
the  figure  of  Madame  Monteverde,  wrapped  in  her 
fur  coat  and  her  face  shaded  by  the  big  pink  hat. 

For  a  moment  no  one  spoke,  and  then  the  girl  came 
toward  me. 

"Is — is  he — is  my  father  still  here?"  she  asked. 

I  nodded  toward  the  library,  and  she  passed  me 
and  went  in,  and  I  watched  her  close  the  door  softly 
behind  her. 

Then  Danby  and  I  sat  down  on  the  bench  in  the 
hallway  and  waited. 


144 


A    MODERN    CLEOPATRA 


A    MODERN    CLEOPATRA 

IF  Escott  had  planned  his  own  downfall,  he  would 
not  have  had  it  otherwise.  His  failure  was  absolute 
and  complete,  and  until  the  last  moment  he  had  lived 
as  he  had  always  lived. 

The  young  man  had  spent  the  morning  and  the 
greater  part  of  the  afternoon  in  the  little  glass  office 
of  his  broker.  "Of  course,"  said  his  financial  adviser, 
"we  are  willing  to  increase  your  margins  for  your 
own  sake,  and  the  sake  of  your  father,  who  was  a 
good  client,  but  I  fear  that  we  could  not  help  you 
sufficiently  to  beat  out  the  present  market.  Besides, 
we  but  followed  your  instructions.  The  fault,  you 
must  admit,  was  yours,  not  ours.  Sell  now  and  the 
statement  shows  you  owe  us  nothing.  A  few  days,  a 
few  hours,  and  you  may  be  hampered  with  a  debt 
which  it  will  take  you  years  to  pay  back." 

Escott  got  up  and  with  much  deliberation  pulled 
on  his  gloves. 

147 


THE    STAGE    DOOR 

"That  seems  easy,"  he  said.  "Then  I  owe  you 
nothing?" 

"Nothing,"  echoed  the  broker.  "We  will  call  your 
account  balanced,  and  let  me  assure  you  that  you 
have  acted  wisely.  I  hope  that  some  day  you  will 
build  up  another  fortune  as  great  as  your  father's, 
and  once  more  become  one  of  our  valued  clients." 

Escott  smiled  and  ran  lightly  down  the  steps.  He 
gave  the  address  of  his  lawyer  to  the  cabman  and,  the 
smile  still  playing  about  his  lips,  fell  back  into  the 
deep  cushions  of  the  hansom.  The  young  man  felt  as 
if  a  great  weight  suddenly  had  been  lifted  from  his 
mind:  the  struggle  was  over  and  now  he  knew  the 
worst.  For  months  he  had  hung  on  with  a  terrible 
tenacity  to  the  hope  of  building  up  a  new  fortune  on 
the  small  remnants  of  his  patrimony.  During  this 
time  he  had  not  changed  his  mode  of  life  one  iota, 
and  when  the  end  seemed  to  be  approaching  he  had 
placed  his  little  all  on  one  coup  which,  if  successful, 
might  have  saved  him.  But  the  coup  was  not  suc- 
cessful. He  had  failed,  but  he  owed  no  one  a  farthing. 

His  life  to  the  present  had  been  laid  along  a  smooth 
and  shaded  pathway;  on  either  side  were  pleasant 
148 


A     MODERN    CLEOPATRA 

pastures  in  which  he  had  roamed  at  will  with  no  heed 
of  the  future.  Above  the  shade-trees  that  lined  his 
path  the  sun  had  forever  seemed  to  shine,  and  its 
rays  glinted  through  the  boughs  and  had  lighted  him 
on  his  joyous  way.  But  now  he  had  come  to  a  great 
stone  wall,  sheering  high  above  him;  the  shadow  of 
warning  it  had  thrown  in  his  path  had  been  un- 
heeded, and  he  was  face  to  face  with  the  rocks  and 
mortar.  He  stood  before  it  impotently.  Good  health 
alone  was  his;  his  life  had  taught  him  no  means  of 
overcoming  the  obstacle  that  faced  him. 

The  cab  stopped  before  his  lawyer's  door,  but  the 
office  was  closed.  After  all,  it  mattered  but  little.  He 
knew  that  there  was  nothing  owing  to  him,  and  the 
interview  could  have  ended  only  in  harsh  words  and 
a  beggarly  loan,  and  at  heart  he  was  glad  to  avoid 
both  one  and  the  other. 

Not  until  he  had  reached  his  own  warmly  lighted 
rooms  did  he  seriously  consider,  or  acknowledge  to 
himself  that  a  great  change  had  come  into  his  life,  and 
that  a  decision  of  serious  import  must  be  reached,  and 
at  once.  For  a  moment  he  tried  to  avoid  the  struggle 
that  was  inevitable,  and  lay  back  in  an  easy-chair 
149 


THE    STAGE    DOOR 

listening  to  his  servant  moving  quietly  about  the  ad- 
joining room.  And  then,  as  if  to  arouse  himself,  he 
stood  up  and  threw  the  cigar  he  had  been  smoking 
into  the  hearth.  Whatever  there  was  to  do  must  be 
done  alone;  he  wished  no  one  to  be  a  partner  in  his 
ignominy. 

He  called  his  servant  and  the  man  appeared  at  the 
doorway. 

"Yes,"  he  said,  "I  think  you  had  better  put  out 
my  evening  things,  and  after  I  go  out  pack  up  all  my 
clothes.  I  am  going  away.  Come  to-morrow  and 
make  the  rooms  ready  for  the  agent.  Put  the  photo- 
graphs in  the  trunks,  and  you  had  better  take  any  of 
the  bric-a-brac  that  is  mine  for  yourself." 

"Thank  you,  sir,"  said  the  servant.  "Am  I  to  go 
with  you?" 

"No,  I  think  not.  I'm  afraid  I  shall  not  need  you 
for  the  present.  I  am  sorry  that  I  could  not  give  you 
more  time  to  look  about  for  another  place." 

Escott  took  out  his  pocketbook,  and  gave  the  man 
the  last  bills  it  held. 

"There  are  your  wages  for  two  weeks,"  he  said. 
"That  is  usual,  is  it  not?" 
150 


A    MODERN    CLEOPATRA 

The  man  bowed  and  left  the  room,  shutting  the 
door  behind  him.  "And  now,"  said  Escott,  half 
aloud,  "where  the  devil  am  I  to  go?  Leave  these 
rooms  I  certainly  must.  If  I  stay  in  New  York  I  shall 
have  to  take  a  clerkship — that  is,  if  I  can  get  one — 
and  that  probably  means  a  refined  boarding-house 
at  best."] 

And  then  there  came  over  him  an  awful  dread  of 
the  life  that  he  must  lead  in  the  city  where,  at  least  in 
his  own  set,  he  had  once  been  of  some  import.  He 
knew  that  he  was  no  longer  a  part  of  it — only  a  mis- 
erable outsider.  With  it  all  came  a  great  love  for 
his  life  of  the  past,  and  the  material  side  of  it  rose  up 
before  him  and  seemed  doubly  attractive  to  him  now 
that  it  was  beyond  his  grasp.  To  it  all  there  seemed 
but  one  answer.  He  must  leave  the  town  and  the 
people  he  loved,  and  must  begin  again  where  there 
was  nothing  to  remind  him  of  all  the  happiness  that 
he  had  known  and  that  was  to  be  his  no  longer. 

"Thank  God,"  he  said,  "there  is  still  time  to  leave 

it  with  honor!"  He  threw  himself  into  a  chair,  and 

burying  his  head  in  his  hands  thought  of  the  men  he 

had  known,  whom  he  had  seen  fail  as  he  had  failed, 

151 


THE    STAGE    DOOR 

and  who  had  lacked  the  strength  to  fly  away  from  it 
all.  Some  of  them  had  become  secretaries  to  rich 
friends,  sometimes  in  their  offices,  sometimes  in  their 
homes,  but  always  with  salaries  out  of  all  proportion 
to  their  worth.  Some  spent  their  lives  as  guests  in  their 
friends'  houses,  wandering  from  place  to  place,  living 
in  the  hope  that  the  next  mail  would  bring  them  a 
letter  offering  a  bed  and  board  for  the  following  week. 
It  mattered  not  whether  it  was  on  a  yacht  or  a  special 
train  or  only  a  country  house — it  meant  food  and 
drink,  a  week  more  of  ease,  a  week  less  of  honest 
work.  And  then  there  were  certain  men  he  knew  at 
the  clubs.  No  one  was  quite  sure  how  they  even  paid 
their  dues,  but  they  made  many  wagers  and  were 
known  to  win  often  at  cards — people  seemed  to  for- 
get the  occasional  losses  till  the  final  breaking  up  and 
the  sudden  disappearance  came.  And  then  there 
were  the  men  who  sold  themselves  and  their  father's 
name  and  were  married  to  the  highest  bidder. 

No,  he  would  not  be  one  of  these.  "  Broke,"  he 
said  to  himself,  "but  not  a  blackguard." 

He  walked  across  the  room,  and  raising  the  win- 
dow, looked  down  on  the  black  city  with  its  myriad  of 
152 


A    MODERN    CLEOPATRA 

yellow  lights.  The  noise  of  the  streets  rose  in  a  great 
wave,  and  as  he  held  tightly  to  the  window-frame, 
the  towers  and  church  steeples  seemed  to  waver 
slightly,  and  the  high  buildings  to  rock  slowly  on 
their  foundations,  and  all  seemed  to  be  moving 
toward  him.  "My  God,"  he  muttered,  "how  I  love 
it." 

An  hour  later  Escott  had  fully  realized  the  novelty 
and  extreme  seriousness  of  his  position.  It  was  most 
contradictory,  and  the  situation  was  not  without 
humor  even  in  the  eyes  of  the  chief  actor  in  this 
modern  tragedy.  He  sat  in  a  luxurious  room,  dressed 
as  well  as  the  best  English  tailor  and  valet  could 
make  him;  his  assets,  an  extensive  wardrobe,  the 
tickets  for  a  box  at  a  music  hall  for  that  night,  a 
dollar  bill  and  a  few  silver  coins.  There  were  two 
courses  open  to  him.  One  was  to  sell  the  luxurious 
wardrobe,  pawn  the  little  jewelry  he  owned,  and  with 
the  proceeds  leave  New  York  to  begin  a  new  life  far 
from  the  world  he  knew  and  liked  so  well  and  where 
he  was  equally  well  known  and  equally  liked.  The 
idea  of  beginning  again  in  New  York  was  not  worthy 
153 


THE    STAGE    DOOR 

of  consideration.  The  other  alternative  was  made 
possible  by  an  excellent  credit.  It  had  been  done  be- 
fore, and  was  being  done  every  day.  With  a  few 
loans  easily  contracted  from  his  immediate  friends, 
and  a  good  run  of  credit  at  the  clubs,  the  restaurants 
and  the  shops  where  he  was  known,  he  could  live  in 
luxury  for  weeks,  even  months.  He  had  known  some 
men  do  it  for  years.  In  the  meantime  something  might 
turn  up.  If  it  didn't — well!  he  could  then  leave  town 
and  begin  his  new  workaday  life.  There  would  be  some 
unpleasant  things  said  about  him,  but  after  all,  it 
would  soon  be  forgotten,  and  no  doubt  he  would 
one  day  return  and  pay  back  the  money  and  re- 
sume his  old  position,  or  nearly  the  same  position. 
The  world,  on  the  whole,  he  inclined  to  believe,  was 
generous  to  young  men  who  had  temporarily  fallen 
by  the  wayside. 

The  thought  loomed  before  him  a  great  tempta- 
tion, and  in  his  heart  he  had  a  terrible  desire  for  one 
last  round  of  pleasure  before  he  left  this  material  world 
which  always  had  been  so  extremely  kind  to  him. 

Whatever  he  did,  he  felt  must  be  done  at  once.  He 
knew  that  he  should  turn  his  back  on  it  all  and  seek 
154 


A    MODERN    CLEOPATRA 

honor  in  flight;  it  was  really  the  only  course,  and  after 
the  first  step  the  rest  would  be  easy.  But  he  feared  to 
take  the  first  step.  It  was  nearly  dinner-time,  he 
was  rather  hungry,  and  he  could  sell  nothing  before 
the  next  morning:  he  must  either  dine  on  the  little 
money  he  had  or  open  an  account  at  a  restaurant. 
There  was  the  first  hurdle  rising  directly  in  front  of 
him,  and  he  could  take  it  as  a  thoroughbred  hunter 
should  or  he  could  shy  at  it  like  a  dog.  The  young 
man  buttoned  his  coat  tightly  about  him,  and  set  out 
to  look  for  his  first  cheap  dinner.  It  was  nearing  seven 
o'clock  when  he  turned  into  the  avenue.  In  the  half 
dozen  blocks  he  walked  he  passed  as  many  doors 
where  he  could  have  entered  and  been  sure  of  a 
hearty  welcome  and  a  good  dinner,  but  there  was  to 
be  no  turning  aside,  no  chance  for  a  change  of  deci- 
sion on  the  morrow.  The  solemn  doors  of  his  friends' 
houses  tempted  him  but  little,  and  so  he  passed  them 
by  until  it  occurred  to  him  that  the  avenue  was  not 
the  place  to  look  for  restaurants  where  they  served 
dinners  for  a  dollar.  He  turned  down  Thirty-fourth 
Street  and  in  a  few  minutes  found  himself  on  Broad- 
way. The  street,  with  its  thousands  of  white  and 
155 


THE    STAGE    DOOR 

yellow  lights,  was  crowded  with  men  and  women  re- 
turning from  their  work,  and  he  regarded  them  with 
a  new  interest  and  wondered  how  he  should  play 
their  part.  They  certainly  seemed  a  happy,  con- 
tented lot.  A  newsboy  ran  in  front  of  him  and  thrust 
an  evening  paper  into  his  hand.  Escott  took  the 
paper  mechanically,  and  while  he  was  looking  for  his 
change  asked  the  boy  how  much  he  made  on  each 
paper  and  how  many  he  sold  a  day. 

"Half  a  cent  on  each  copy,"  he  repeated  after  the 
boy,  "and  you  sell  perhaps  thirty  on  a  good  day." 
He  told  the  boy  to  keep  the  change,  and  went  on, 
whistling  softly  to  himself. 

He  had  gone  but  a  short  distance  farther  when  he 
heard  a  woman's  voice  calling  him  by  name,  and 
then  a  hansom  drew  up  suddenly  at  the  curb  and  a 
girl  alighted,  and  without  paying  him  much  heed 
gave  the  driver  some  directions  about  meeting  her 
later  in  the  evening. 

Miss  Stella  Brunelle  had  never  before  inspired  any 
particular  interest  in  Escott,  and  she  certainly  did  not 
do  so  at  this  moment  when  his  thoughts  were  dis- 
tinctly of  a  serious  nature.  He  had  frequently  watched 
156 


A    MODERN    CLEOPATRA 

her  with  pleasure  from  a  box  at  one  of  the  music- 
halls,  and  she  had  appeared  to  him  as  part  of  a  bright 
and  pleasing  picture.  Her  physical  attractions  on  and 
off  the  stage  were  easily  evident,  but  as  to  her  mental 
powers  or  views  of  life  in  general  he  had  chosen  to 
remain  in  ignorance.  He  had  known  Miss  Stella 
Brunelle  for  some  time,  as  he  had  known  many  other 
women  of  the  stage,  and  on  several  occasions  she  had 
been  his  guest  at  supper-parties  after  the  play. 

"I  like  Stella  Brunelle,"  he  had  explained  once, 
"because  to  my  mind  she  fills  the  youthful  ideal  of 
what  a  stage  beauty  really  should  be,  and  I  always 
ask  her  to  supper  when  I  have  a  college  man  or  a 
friend  from  the  country  stopping  with  me.  Presum- 
ably she  does  eat  eggs  and  drink  coffee  for  her  break- 
fast, but  I  always  somehow  imagine  her  confronted 
by  hot  birds  and  a  frosted  wine-cooler  at  her  feet. 
My  college  and  bucolic  friends  all  delight  in  her,  but 
personally  I  don't  know  that  we  have  ever  exchanged 
five  words." 

When  Miss  Brunelle  had  dismissed  her  hansom, 
she  turned  to  Escott  with  a  show  of  much  enthusiasm 
and  apparent  real  delight  at  the  meeting. 
157 


THE    STAGE    DOOR 

"Well,  I  am  glad,"  she  said.  "I  was  that  lonesome 
at  home  that  I  simply  couldn't  eat  by  myself,  so  I 
came  downtown  in  the  hope  of  finding  some  one  to 
dine  with.  Now,  don't  tell  me  you  have  an  engage- 
ment. If  you  have,  send  them  a  wire.  I  must  have 
dinner  with  somebody." 

Escott  threw  away  his  cigarette,  and  looked  down 
into  Miss  Brunelle's  large,  appealing  eyes. 

"No,"  he  said,  meditatively,  "I'm  not  dining  with 
any  one.  Quite  alone,  in  fact."  He  hesitated  for  a 
moment  and  took  a  cursory  inventory  of  Miss  Bru- 
nelle's furs  and  her  glistening  white  gloves. 

"I  was  thinking,"  he  said,  "of  trying  one  of  those 
Sixth  Avenue  tables-d'hote.  They  do  say  you  get  the 
most  remarkable  dinner  for  fifty  cents.  Have  you 
ever  tried  one  ?  " 

"I  certainly  have,"  answered  Miss  Brunelle,  "and 
I  can't  see  them  with  field-glasses.  Tables-d'hote  and 
beefsteak  parties  are  all  right  in  a  big  crowd  on  Sat- 
urday nights,  but  this  is  only  Tuesday." 

"So  it  is,"  he  answered,  "only  Tuesday,  as  you 
say.  Still,  I  rather  like  the  idea  of  just  you  and  me  din- 
ing alone  at  a  table-d'hote.  You  know  they  throw  in 
158 


A    MODERN    CLEOPATRA 

wine  and  coffee,  and  olives  and — and  salted  almonds 
for  all  I  know." 

"But  why?"  said  Miss  Brunelle,  a  little  impa- 
tiently. "Here  we  are  at  the  very  door  of  a  fine 
palm-room.  Why  go  farther?" 

"Why,  yes;  why,  of  course,"  he  said.  "Let's  go  in 
here." 

For  just  a  moment  he  stopped  at  the  door.  How 
absurd  it  all  was,  to  be  sure — only  the  cost  of  the 
dinner.  He  could  pay  the  next  morning,  and  yet  he 
could  not  help  the  feeling  that  he  had  been  a  little 
weak,  for  in  a  way  he  had  broken  the  promise  he  had 
made  to  himself  and  the  cause  was  hardly  a  worthy 
one. 

They  walked  down  the  long  room  under  the 
palms,  the  mirrors  reflecting  their  figures  as  they 
passed.  Escott  knew  half  the  people  at  the  tables  and 
nodded  to  them  as  he  followed  the  maitre  d 'hotel  to 
the  end  of  the  restaurant.  The  girl  stopped  to  speak 
to  some  of  her  friends,  but  Escott  seemed  to  wish  to 
avoid  them  as  much  as  it  was  possible,  and  did  not 
halt  until  he  had  reached  his  own  table. 

There  certainly  was  a  charm  about  it  all — the  low 
159 


THE    STAGE    DOOR 

music,  the  dull  marbles  and  the  old-gold  pillars,  and 
the  bright  dresses  of  the  women  half  hidden  by  the 
palms,  and  Miss  Brunelle  sitting  opposite  to  him  at 
the  little  table  with  its  snowy  linen  and  heavy  silver 
and  fine  glass.  As  she  slowly  drew  off  her  gloves,  he 
looked  up  curiously  into  her  face,  shaded  by  the  dull 
light  of  the  little  pink  table-lamp.  She  seemed  to  him 
to  have  a  great  deal  of  beauty  at  that  moment. 

"And  now,"  she  said,  briskly,  "what  is  it  to  be?" 

"What  do  you  think  ?"  he  asked. 

"Well,  you  know  I'm  out  of  that  bit  in  the  first  of 
the  act,  and  don't  come  until  near  the  end,  so  I  have 
plenty  of  time.  My  idea  about  a  dinner,"  she  ran  on, 
"is  to  have  nothing  that  is  ready  or  inexpensive,  and 
simplicity  only  as  regards  length." 

"I  should  say  that  meant,"  he  said,  "caviare,  ter- 
rapin, duck  with  salad,  and  cafe  extra.  What  do  you 
think?" 

"Yes,"  she  said  slowly,  "and  let  us  compromise 
on  something  fairly  dry." 

The  dinner  ordered,  Miss  Brunelle  settled  back 
into  her  chair  and  smiled  contentedly  across  the 
table. 

160 


A    MODERN    CLEOPATRA 

"Billy,"  she  said, — "you  don't  mind  me  calling  you 
Billy — everybody  does.  What  are  you  going  to  call 
me?" 

"Oh,  I  don't  know — Miss  Fate,  I  think,  might  be 
an  appropriate  name." 

"Why  Miss  Fate?"  she  asked.  "Is  that  a  part  in 
a  play?" 

"Yes,"  he  said,  "it's  a  character  part  in  a  tragedy 
called  'Life.'" 

"Really,  but  I  wouldn't  look  so  serious  about  it  if 
I  were  you,  and  for  heaven's  sake  don't  look  me  all 
over  like  that.  Is  there  anything  the  matter  with  my 
collar  ?"  Miss  Brunelle  turned  and  gazed  at  herself  in 
the  mirror. 

"It  wasn't  your  collar  so  much  as  your  face  that 
interested  me,"  he  said.  "They  say  that  every 
Antony  has  his  Cleopatra,  but  I  somehow  never 
imagined  you  as  mine.  But  we  can  never  tell,  can 
we?" 

"Cleopatra,"  repeated  Miss  Brunelle — "I  saw 
Mrs.  Potter  in  the  part  when  I  was  a  kid.  I  forget 
Antony.  What  did  he  do  ?" 

"Antony?  Well — he  had  a  big,  fine  thing  to  do, 
161 


THE    STAGE    DOOR 

and  he  started  out  to  do  it  all  right  and  then  he  met 
Cleopatra,  and  he  ran  away." 

"  What,  ran  away  from  the  lady  ?  "  said  Miss  Bru- 
nelle.  "How  brusque!" 

"No,  he  ran  away  from  the  fine  thing." 

"All  on  account  of  the  lady  ?"  asked  the  soubrette. 
"Times  haven't  changed  much,  have  they?"  and 
she  glanced  significantly  around  the  restaurant. 

"Thank  heaven,  here's  the  caviare,"  she  added. 
"And  Cleopatra — she  let  him  run  away  from  the 
stunt?" 

"Oh,  yes,"  he  said;  "times  haven't  changed  much 
in  that  respect  either,  do  you  think?" 

"Well,  now,"  said  Miss  Brunelle,  "I  don't  know. 
There  was  Johnny  Andrews.  Did  you  know  him? 
He  went  broke.  Races,  I  think — and  he  side-stepped 
— never  so  much  as  said  good-by.  A  girl  sent  him 
away.  I'll  never  forget  the  night  he  got  back;  he 
walked  into  the  box  and  Elsie  fainted.  Well,  the 
whole  show  stopped,  and  old  Gessler,  that  led  the 
orchestra  and  never  was  known  to  speak  to  any 
one,  stood  up  and  bowed  to  him."  Miss  Brunelle 
picked  up  a  piece  of  bread  and  broke  it  reflect- 
162 


A    MODERN    CLEOPATRA 

ively.  "I  guess  that  was  the  gayest  supper  I  ever  at- 
tended." 

Escott  leaned  back  in  his  chair  and  looked  curi- 
ously into  the  girl's  face. 

"Miss  Brunelle,"  he  said,  "you  are  very  inter- 
esting to  me  because  you  are  the  ideal  of  a  cer- 
tain type."  The  girl  smiled  doubtfully.  "I  should 
like  your  opinion  in  a  certain  matter,"  he  went  on 
very  slowly,  "because  I  know  that  you  are  quite 
honest.  Now  suppose  a  man  you  knew,  a  man  like 
myself,  who  is  believed  to  have  plenty  of  money, 
should  wake  up  some  day  and  find  himself  ruined. 
Quite  ruined — I  mean  literally  without  a  penny.  You 
wouldn't  say  to  him,  'Go  away,'  would  you?  It 
seems  to  me  you  would  say:  'Better  stay  here;  a  few 
more  dinners,  a  few  more  suppers,  what  matter  the 
cost  in  the  future?  Here  there's  life  and  pleasure; 
we  will  smile  at  you,  and  we  will  make  you  laugh. 
After  all,  our  interest  ends  with  the  liqueurs.  The  bill 
is  paid  by  somebody,  some  time.'  That  is  what  you 
would  say,  wouldn't  you?" 

He  was  speaking  with  great  earnestness,  and, 
leaning  far  over  the  table,  looked  anxiously  into  the 
163 


THE    STAGE    DOOR 

girl's  face  as  if  her  answer  was  of  much  moment  to 
him.  "Look  at  the  men  about  us,"  he  went  on. 
"  What  do  you  know  of  them  ?  To-day  they  are  rich, 
because  they  are  spending  their  money  like  Indian 
princes.  But  how  is  it  to-morrow?  How  many  men 
have  you  and  I  seen  here  fail  miserably  with  debts 
everywhere  ?  Do  we  care  ?  We  have  eaten  with  them, 
drunk  with  them  and  laughed  with  them.  Does  it 
matter  after  all  from  where  the  money  comes?  We 
have  paid  our  debt  in  our  presence  and  in  our  poor 
jokes.  We  owe  them  nothing." 

Miss  Brunelle  put  down  her  fork  and  looked  casu- 
ally over  the  different  men  and  women  sitting  near 
her.  "Well,"  she  said,  "now  there's — but  that's  per- 
sonal. I  think  perhaps  we  would  all  act  differently. 
Some  of  our  friends  here  to-night  should  be  in  jail 
and  some  have  a  fair  right  to  be  at  large.  The  trouble 
is  that  when  we  are  making  two  hundred  a  week  we 
forget  the  day  when  we  carried  a  spear.  It's  really 
wonderful  how  quickly  you  can  educate  yourself 
from  a  piece  of  bacon  to  a  partridge  breast.  I  don't 
suppose  there  is  hardly  a  woman  here  to-night  that 
hasn't  done  a  sketch  in  a  ten-twenty-and -thirty 
164 


A     MODERN    CLEOPATRA 

show,  and  now  look  at  us.  Why,  I  remember  the  days 
when  they  used  to  give  out  the  parts,  I  didn't  care 
whether  I  had  one  line  or  was  the  whole  show,  and  I 
can  remember  when  I  used  to  lend  the  other  girls 
my  rouge  and  hare's-foot  and  help  pack  the  star's 
trunk  for  her.  These  long  engagements  in  New  York 
and  this  taxicab  life  do  make  one  a  little  selfish,  I 
guess.  As  you  say,  Billy,  I  suppose  we  do  rather 
come  to  regard  these  things  as  our  rights,  and  I  don't 
imagine  we  do  think  much  of  when  or  how  it  all 
comes.  If  you  had  ever  done  a  season  of  one-night 
stands  you  would  know  what  a  good  New  York  en- 
gagement means.  Heavens,  how  I  hate  the  road;  this 
is  the  real  thing.  No  trains  and  early  calls  and  lunch- 
counter  dinners  for  me  again.  Eat,  drink  and  for 
heaven's  sake  try  and  make  merry.  What  are  you 
thinking  about  ?  " 

"I  was  thinking,"  Escott  said,  "that  to-morrow 
night  some  poor  devil  here  may  have  dropped  out  of 
it  all.  Dropped  into  some  strange  place  without  any 
money  and  without  friends.  And  the  worst  of  it  all 
will  be  that  he  will  know  that  here  it  is  all  going  on 
just  the  same  as  it  was  the  night  before,  when  he  was 
165 


THE    STAGE    DOOR 

a  part  of  it — the  same  crowd  and  the  same  music — 
and  that  his  friends  of  the  night  before  will  laugh 
with  the  rest  of  them,  and  that  he  will  be  as  dead  to 
them  as  if  he  had  never  lived." 

"My!"  said  Miss  Brunelle,  "you  are  a  lively  com- 
panion. Let  me  count  the  men  here  to-night.  If  they 
don't  all  show  up  to-morrow,  I'm  afraid  I  couldn't 
eat  my  dinner." 

And  then  Miss  Brunelle  seemed  to  pull  herself  to- 
gether mentally,  as  it  were,  and  to  assume  the  head 
of  the  table  and  the  role  of  the  hostess.  She  talked 
continuously,  and  laughed  over  the  old  days  of  the 
road  and  her  strange  experiences  as  a  popular  sou- 
brette,  the  idol  of  the  New  England  and  Pennsyl- 
vania circuits.  And  finally  Escott  found  himself 
laughing,  too,  and  asking  her  many  questions,  and 
her  views  on  people  and  the  events  of  the  day.  They 
were,  perhaps,  narrow  views,  but  they  were  interest- 
ing ones  because  they  were  somewhat  individual  and 
always  amusing.  At  times  it  almost  seemed  to  Escott 
that  the  girl  was  perhaps  forcing  her  fun  in  her 
efforts  to  keep  him  interested,  but  he  was  hardly 
willing  to  admit  that  she  was  capable  of  making  any 
166 


A    MODERN    CLEOPATRA 

serious  effort  for  any  cause,  and  so  he  credited  the 
flow  of  spirits  to  the  excellent  dinner,  which  Miss 
Brunelle  seemed  to  find  most  grateful.  But  in  time 
the  actress  consulted  her  diamond-studded  watch 
and  began  to  search  for  her  gloves. 

Escott  called  for  the  check,  and  when  it  came  he 
signed  it  on  the  back  with  some  deliberation.  Then 
he  put  the  last  dollar  he  owned  on  the  plate  and 
pushed  it  toward  the  waiter. 

"Don't  you  ever  look  at  your  checks,"  asked  Miss 
Brunelle,  "especially  when  you  sign  them?" 

"I  don't  know,"  he  answered.  "I  can't  remember 
that  I  ever  signed  one  here  before."  He  turned  the 
bill  over  and  glanced  at  the  amount.  It  read,  "  Four- 
teen dollars  and  twenty  cents." 

"Why  do  you  smile  ?"  she  asked. 

"Oh,  I  don't  know,"  he  answered;  "there  is  some- 
thing rather  comic  about  that  twenty  cents.  It  seems 
such  an  unnecessary  detail.  Do  you  have  to  go  ?" 

Escott  took  Miss  Brunelle  to  the  stage-door  of  the 

music-hall  and  then  went  up  into  his  box.  It  was 

warm,  and  the  little  theatre  looked  very  bright,  and 

the  audience  seemed   particularly  enthusiastic  and 

167 


THE    STAGE    DOOR 

easily  amused.  From  the  stage  he  looked  down  on  a 
sea  of  faces ;  they  all  were  smiling  and  seemed  so  con- 
tent and  fearless  of  the  morrow.  Then  his  glance 
wandered  back  to  the  stage,  and  he  looked  curiously 
at  two  women  who  were  dancing  down  to  the  foot- 
lights. 

"And,"  said  Escott  to  himself,  "they  will  be  doing 
that  to-morrow  night,  and  the  night  after,  and  the 
night  after  that.  And  they  will  smile  as  they  are 
smiling  now  and  be  quite  content." 

The  performance  passed  before  him  as  a  revolving 
kaleidoscope,  a  whirling  mass  of  color  and  odd  lights 
and  fanciful  movements.  For  a  moment  he  tried  to 
steady  his  thoughts  and  to  hunt  out  Miss  Brunelle. 
She  was  standing  at  the  back  of  the  stage  and  look- 
ing, at  least  so  it  seemed,  directly  at  him.  She  smiled 
and  he  smiled  at  her,  and  then  somehow  she  became 
blended  in  the  stage-picture  again,  and  was  lost  in 
the  moving  mass  of  color.  He  pulled  viciously  at  his 
cigar  and  breathed  the  hot  air  of  the  theatre  through 
his  nostrils.  It  was  all  so  very  warm  and  bright,  and 
the  music  so  very  tuneful.  Yes,  it  was  extremely  hard 
to  give  it  all  up.  And  why  should  he  ?  No.  He  would 
168 


A    MODERN    CLEOPATRA 

stay  on  for  a  day  or  a  week  or  a  month,  and  drift 
with  the  tide  of  his  own  dissipated  fortunes.  There 
must  come  a  turning  some  day.  The  curtain  was 
falling,  and  he  smiled  listlessly  at  the  faces  of  half  a 
dozen  women  who  were  smiling  up  at  him.  The 
music  went  on  playing  the  popular  song  of  the  bur- 
lesque, and  he  went  out  humming  it  to  himself. 

"Some  day,"  he  thought,  "I  may  be  humming 
that  on  a  prairie  or  in  jail,  and  it  will  bring  all  this 
back  to  me.  I  must  not  forget  that  song.  It  is  so 
reminiscent." 

At  first  he  decided  that  he  would  begin  his  week 
of  pleasure  at  once,  and  had  determined  to  look  up 
some  of  his  friends  for  a  little  supper-party.  And 
then  the  strain  of  the  day  began  to  tell  upon  him, 
and  as  he  walked  into  the  cool  air  of  the  streets  his 
steps  seemed  to  turn  instinctively  toward  home. 

When  he  arrived  there  he  found  two  notes  on  his 
desk.  The  first  he  opened  was  an  invitation  to  a  din- 
ner for  the  following  night. 

"Will  I  go  ?  Rather,"  he  said.  "The  devil  certainly 
doesn't  seem  to  lose  much  time  in  looking  after  his 
own." 

169 


THE    STAGE    DOOR 

The  second  note  was  addressed  in  pencil,  and  in 
an  unknown  handwriting.  He  tore  off  the  envelope 
and  found  inside  the  bill  for  the  dinner  he  had  had 
that  night  with  Miss  Brunelle.  His  glance  fell  on  the 
familiar  fourteen  dollars  and  twenty  cents,  and  then 
he  turned  over  the  soiled  slip  of  paper,  and  across  its 
back  was  stamped  the  name  of  the  restaurant  and 
the  word  "Paid."  Underneath  it,  in  the  same  hand- 
writing as  the  envelope,  were  these  lines  from  Miss 
Stella  Brunelle:  "Dear  Billy:  I  told  the  girls  at  the 
theatre  that  you  were  going  away  to-morrow.  Going 
into  some  sort  of  business  out  West  (I  forget  just 
where).  They  were  very  sorry,  but  they  said  they 
would  be  mighty  glad  to  see  you  again  whenever  you 
got  back.  Good-by,  and  God  bless  you,  Billy." 


170 


THE  CROSS  ROADS,  NEW  YORK 


THE  CROSS  ROADS,  NEW  YORK 

MlSS  ROSE  CAWTHORNE,  character  woman 
of  the  Great  Mogul  Company,  sat  with  folded  hands 
at  the  window  of  her  room  in  the  theatrical  boarding- 
house,  which  for  many  years  she  had  honored  with 
her  patronage.  Now  and  again  she  glanced  through 
the  stiffly  starched  lace  curtains  and  saw  Twenty- 
second  Street  deep  in  new  fallen  snow,  the  trees 
heavy  with  sparkling  icicles,  and  the  air  filled  with 
fluttering  silver  flakes.  Inside,  a  coal  fire  glowed  on 
the  shallow  grate  and  a  single  burning  gas  jet  gave 
to  the  room  a  certain  air  of  cheerfulness,  even  though 
it  brought  into  sharper  relief  the  faded  pink  carpet 
and  the  badly  frayed  green  silk  furniture. 

As  the  hands  of  the  nickel  alarm  clock  on  the 

mantel  marked  the  hour  of  three,  Miss  Cawthorne 

unfolded  her  hands,  took  the  rose-colored  knit  shawl 

from  her  shoulders,  once  more  glanced  out  through 

173 


THE    STAGE    DOOR 

the  lace  curtains,  and  then  walked  to  the  mirror 
across  the  room.  For  a  moment  she  looked  steadily 
into  the  glass  at  the  sharply  cut  features,  the  faded 
coloring,  the  shadows  under  the  eyes,  and  then  with 
the  merest  suggestion  of  a  smile  glanced  down  at 
her  well-preserved  figure.  She  opened  a  "vanity 
box"  that  lay  on  the  bureau,  and,  with  the  dexterity 
of  one  accustomed  to  making  up,  lightly  touched  her 
lips  with  rouge  and  added  a  little  more  powder  to  the 
already  ample  supply  on  her  nose  and  cheeks.  Then 
she  patted  the  curls  on  her  forehead  and  gently 
brushed  back  the  bronze-red  pompadour.  It  had 
been  a  long  time  since  Miss  Cawthorne  had  antici- 
pated a  visit  from  one  of  the  gilded  youth  of  New 
York. 

It  was  hardly  the  room  she  would  have  chosen  in 
which  to  receive  her  guest;  but  it  was  well  enough  for 
a  theatrical  boarding-house,  and  much  more  private 
than  the  reception-room  down  stairs.  By  no  reaches 
of  the  imagination  could  the  folding  bed  be  taken 
for  any  other  article  of  furniture,  and  the  green  silk 
of  the  chairs  was  certainly  very  badly  frayed;  but 
there  was  a  table  cover  of  a  lively  hue,  and  many 
174 


THE  CROSS  ROADS,  NEW  YORK 

signed  photographs  of  many  actresses  went  far 
toward  covering  the  faded  wall-paper.  Once  more 
Miss  Cawthorne  glanced  out  at  the  snow-covered 
street,  and  was  this  time  rewarded  by  the  sight  of  an 
approaching  electric  hansom.  With  an  ostentatious 
clanging  of  the  gong  the  cab  drew  up  in  front  of  the 
boarding-house,  and  the  woman  returned  to  her 
seat  at  the  window. 

The  colored  servant  who  went  to  the  door  had 
received  his  instructions,  and  without  delay  led  the 
visitor  up  two  flights  of  stairs  to  the  actress's  room. 
The  visitor  was  a  young  man,  perhaps  twenty-five 
years  of  age,  tall  and  athletic  looking,  with  a  clean, 
fresh  skin  and  fine  clear  eyes  that  spoke  of  health 
and  a  total  lack  of  care  and  worry.  Miss  Cawthorne 
unfolded  her  hands  and  rose  from  her  chair  with 
more  sprightliness  than  she  had  originally  planned. 
"It  was  very  good  of  you  to  come,  Mr.  Brandt,"  she 
said,  extending  her  hand.  "I  have  seen  you  sitting 
on  the  front  row  at  our  performance  so  often  now 
that  I  really  look  upon  you  as  an  old  friend." 

"It  was  very  good  of  you  to  ask  me,"  said  young 
Brandt,  bending  over  until  his  lips  almost  touched 
175 


THE    STAGE    DOOR 

the  diamonds  on  the  powdered  hand.  She  held  him 
away  from  her  at  arm's  length,  and  under  the  hang- 
ing gas  jet  looked  steadily  into  the  young  man's 
clear  blue  eyes. 

"You  are  very  like  your  father,"  she  said,  "in  your 
looks,  and  more  especially  in  your  manner." 

"Oh,  then  you  knew  my  father?" 

"Yes,  a  long  time  ago.  You  must  accept  that  as 
my  apology  for  asking  you  here.  Your  father  had  a 
certain  courtesy,  even  courtliness  in  his  manner,  that 
was  quite  old  fashioned,  but  I  am  sure  all  women 
loved  him  for  it.  I  think  there  must  be  much  of  the 
same  charm  in  the  son;  that  is,  if  I  am  to  believe  all 
the  things  I  hear  of  him.  Won't  you  sit  down  ?" 

Miss  Cawthorne  returned  to  her  arm  chair  at  the 
window;  but  Brandt  walked  over  to  the  hearth,  and 
stood  warming  his  hands  behind  his  back,  and  smil- 
ing at  his  hostess. 

"I  suppose  you  refer  to  my  friends  in  the  Mogul 
Company?"  he  said.  "I  really  hope  they  do  like 
me.  You've  all  given  me  such  a  lot  of  fun.  I  don't 
know  what  I  should  do  if  the  Mogul  left  town." 

Miss  Cawthorne  looked  up  and  smiled  at  him,  the 
176 


THE  CROSS  ROADS,  NEW  YORK 

meantime  beating  a  tattoo  on  the  padded  arms  of 
her  chair.  "Oh,  they  like  you  very  much;  they're 
forever  talking  of  your  parties,  and  they  show  me 
the  flowers  and  things  you  send  them.  Especially 
little  Miss  Page;  she  and  I  are  great  pals — such  a 
nice  girl!  She  told  me  yesterday  all  about  the  won- 
derful supper  you  are  having  for  her  to-night.  It 
must  be  very  pleasant  to  be  able  to  give  all  that  hap- 
piness. Very  different  from  the  old  days  at  Selby- 
ville,  I  imagine." 

The  young  man  nodded.  "Yes,  very  different," 
he  said.  "It  was  certainly  quiet  enough  there.  My 
father,  you  know,  was  always  devoted  to  his  flowers 
and  his  books,  and  until  the  last  his  writing  was  his 
greatest  amusement.  Neither  he  nor  my  mother  cared 
very  much  about  going  around  with  other  people. 
So  you  can  understand  Selbyville  was  not  very  gay 
for  me,  and  when  my  mother  died  there  seemed  to 
be  no  particular  reason  for  my  staying  on." 

"And  so,"  said  Miss  Cawthorne,  smiling,  and  with 

a  certain  ornate  manner  of  the  stage,  "you  left  the 

old  home,  and,  bringing  your  fortune  with  you,  came 

to  the  great  city,  and  there  you  discovered  content 

177 


THE    STAGE    DOOR 

on  the  front  row  of  the  Casino  theatre,  and  complete 
happiness  in  the  girlish  smiles  of  little  Maizie  Page." 

Brandt  nodded  his  head  slowly.  "I  must  confess 
that  it  is  the  best  chair  I  have  found  so  far  in  New 
York,  and  Miss  Page's  smiles  are  quite  wonderful. 
Don't  you  think  so  ?" 

Miss  Cawthorne  looked  out  of  the  window  until 
the  glare  of  the  glistening  snow  made  her  turn  her 
eyes  back  to  the  soft  light  of  the  room  and  to  the 
fresh,  pleasant  face  of  the  young  man  standing  in 
front  of  the  fireplace.  "I  suppose  they  are  quite 
wonderful,"  she  said  slowly;  "but  then,  you  see,  I 
am  a  fairly  old  woman  now,  and  have  seen  a  great 
many  wonderful  smiles  from  the  stage  to  the  front 
row,  and  they  all  meant  such  very  different  things 
from  what  they  were  supposed  to  mean.  Sometimes 
they  were  meant  to  show  a  row  of  good  teeth  or  a 
pair  of  dimples;  and  sometimes  they  were  meant  to 
appease  the  stage  manager  in  the  prompt  entrance, 
or  make  the  musical  director  or  their  particular 
friend  in  the  orchestra  jealous;  or  very  often  they 
were  meant  to  make  the  rest  of  the  audience  think 
that  the  owner  of  the  smile  had  at  least  one  admirer 
178 


THE  CROSS  ROADS,  NEW  YORK 

on  the  front  row  or  in  the  boxes.  It  is  wonderful  how 
really  insincere  most  stage  smiles  are.  But  of  course 
Miss  Page's  smile  may  be  different.  They  tell  me 
you  are  really  very  devoted;  they  have  even  sug- 
gested that  you  thought  of  marriage." 

The  color  slowly  crept  into  the  young  man's  face, 
and  he  half  raised  his  hand  in  protest. 

Miss  Cawthorne  quickly  rose  from  her  chair. 
"Don't — please  don't!"  she  begged.  "I'm  so  sorry! 
I  didn't  mean  to  say  that." 

Brandt  went  over  to  the  table  and  picked  up  his 
gloves  and  hat.  "Really,  Miss  Cawthorne,  I  don't 
want  to  be  uncivil,"  he  said,  "nor  unappreciative; 
but  I  can't  understand  why  you  should  take  such 
an  interest  in  Miss  Page  and  me." 

Miss  Cawthorne  walked  toward  the  door,  as  if  in 
an  attempt  to  prevent  Brandt  leaving  the  room,  and 
then  turned  and  held  out  her  hand  toward  him. 
"I'm  very  sorry,"  she  said — "it  was  so  clumsy  of  me! 
I  know  that  I'm  only  a  stranger.  Please  forgive  me — 
please !  It  wasn't  what  I  wanted  to  say  at  all." 

Brandt  nodded  gravely.  "May  I  ask  you  then 
what  you  did  want  to  say  ?  " 
179 


THE    STAGE    DOOR 

"Why  yes,"  she  said.  "It  was  really  nothing — 
just  an  incident  that  I  thought  might  interest  you. 
Please  sit  down,  won't  you,  or  go  back  there  and 
stand  by  the  fire  ?  I  don't  want  to  think  you  are  going 
away  at  once.  I  wanted  so  much  to  be  good  friends 
with  you." 

Brandt  put  down  his  hat  and  gloves  and  went  back 
to  his  old  place  in  front  of  the  grate.  The  actress  sat 
at  a  little  marble  centre-table,  leaning  her  elbows  on 
it  and  resting  her  chin  between  the  palms  of  her 
hands. 

"  It's  not  a  very  pleasant  story  for  me  to  tell,"  she 
said,  looking  up  at  Brandt,  "  but  it  won't  take  long. 

It's  about  your  mother." 

i 
The  young  man  looked  at  her  with  much  curiosity, 

even  a  certain  incredulity;  so  far  as  he  knew,  his 
mother  had  never  known  any  one  who  was  in  any  way 
connected  with  the  stage. 

"Do  you  see  that  large  panel  photograph  over 
there  on  the  piano?"  Miss  Cawthorne  said,  without 
changing  her  position.  "I  mean  the  very  old  faded 
one,  of  the  girl  in  the  black  tights,  and  the  close  fit- 
ting basque,  and  the  foolish  hat  with  the  plumes? 
180 


THE  CROSS  ROADS,  NEW  YORK 

Well,  that's  I — twenty-five  years  ago — or  more,  per- 
haps. Just  think,  that  was  taken  before  you  were 
born!" 

Brandt  picked  up  the  photograph  and  carried  it  to 
the  light.  "It  is  very,  very  beautiful  indeed,"  he  said. 

"That  was  my  first  great  success.  We  played  the 
piece  here  in  New  York  for  nearly  a  year;  and  that 
was  a  wonderful  year  for  me.  I  was  just  about  twenty 
then,  and  the  days  never  seemed  quite  long  enough 
for  all  the  pleasures  I  tried  to  squeeze  into  them.  You 
see,  I  was  young,  and  had  health  to  spare,  and  was 
almost  famous  in  a  small  way.  Then  men  about  town 
and  the  boys  from  college  used  to  fill  the  front  rows 
every  night,  and  there  were  always  suppers  and 
flowers  and  big  dinners  on  Sunday  nights.  I  was  as 
well  known  then  as — well,  as  Maizie  Page  is  to-day." 

Miss  Cawthorne  stopped  and  smiled  up  at  Brandt. 
There  was  a  new  light  in  the  gray  eyes  he  had  never 
seen  before,  and  the  blood  had  risen  to  her  temples 
and  darkened  the  faded  cheeks.  Brandt  saw  for  the 
first  time  the  likeness  between  the  girl  of  the  faded 
photograph  and  the  present  character  woman  of  the 
Mogul  Company. 

181 


THE    STAGE    DOOR 

"Please  go  on,"  he  said. 

"We  stayed  in  New  York  almost  a  year,  and  near 
the  end  of  the  season  a  manager  named  Hanson — 
he  was  a  friend  of  mine  whom  I  liked  very  much  at 
the  time — offered  to  make  a  star  of  me.  You  know 
how  that  appeals  to  every  actress.  The  difficulty  was 
to  get  a  play  that  would  suit  me.  I  had  some  fine 
ideas  then,  and  refused  to  go  into  musical  comedy, 
which  was  the  only  thing  I  really  could  do.  I  insisted 
it  was  to  be  straight  drama.  So  at  last  we  got  hold  of 
a  comedy  through  a  play  agent.  It  was  called  '  In  the 
Best  Regulated  Families,'  and  I  think  it  was  the 
first  and  the  last  play  your  father  ever  wrote.  We 
liked  it  for  two  reasons — it  had  one  good  scene,  and 
it  was  cheap.  We  knew  that  Mr.  Brandt  was  rich 
and  wrote  only  for  pleasure,  so  we  got  it  for  almost 
nothing.  We  opened  in  Troy,  and  for  a  comedy  it 
turned  out  one  of  the  most  dire  tragedies  I  have  ever 
known.  The  play  was  not  so  bad,  but  the  company 
was  awful,  and  I  was  so  nervous  I  didn't  know 
whether  I  was  up  stage  or  at  home  eating  supper. 

"When  the  performance  was  over  I  went  back  to 
the  hotel,  and  I  think  I  really  wanted  to  die  The 
182 


THE  CROSS  ROADS,  NEW  YORK 

manager,  Hanson,  came  up  to  my  room  and  told  me 
just  how  bad  I  had  been,  and  he  was  pretty  rough 
about  it,  too.  You  see,  he  had  lost  everything  he 
owned,  and  he  was  sore.  Besides  that,  he  was  a  brute. 
He  swore  at  me  for  a  while,  and  then — then — well, 
he  struck  me." 

The  actress  stopped  talking,  and  rubbed  her  hand 
slowly  across  her  eyes,  as  if  to  shut  out  the  memory 
of  that  night  twenty-five  years  before.  Then  she 
glanced  up  at  the  young  man  standing  at  the  fire- 
place, looking  down  at  her  with  grave,  sympathetic 
eyes. 

"He  struck  me  here,"  the  actress  began  again, 
pointing  to  her  shoulder  near  the  throat,  "and  then 
he  left  me  alone  and  went  down  stairs  to  talk  to 
your  father  about  the  play.  He  left  me  alone  lying  on 
the  bed,  hurt  and  bruised,  and  my  heart  was  break- 
ing. And  there  I  lay  sobbing  aloud  and  crying  for  the 
old  days  back  on  Broadway  and  the  good  friends  I 
had  had  then — the  college  boys  and  the  suppers  and 
everything  I  loved.  You  see  I  was  really  only  a  girl 
at  the  time,  and  I  hadn't  quite  got  used  to  the  knocks 
and  bumps  that  came  later. 
183 


THE    STAGE    DOOR 

"I  don't  know  how  long  I  lay  there  crying,  but 
after  a  time  I  heard  the  door  open,  and  your  mother 
came  in.  She  was  very  young  and  very  pretty.  I  had 
never  met  her,  but  she  had  been  pointed  out  to  me 
as  your  father's  wife — she  was  just  a  bride,  then. 
She  had  the  next  room  to  mine,  and  I  suppose  she 
must  have  heard  Hanson  swearing  and  then  my 
sobs.  She  sat  on  the  edge  of  the  bed  and  tried  to  com- 
fort me  about  the  play,  and  you  can  imagine  it  was 
pretty  hard  for  her,  because  she  knew  nothing  about 
plays,  or  actors  either,  I  guess.  And  all  the  time  she 
kept  her  hand  on  the  bruised  place  on  my  shoulder 
where  Hanson  had  struck  me,  just  to  pretend  that 
she  didn't  notice  it.  Anyhow,  I  went  to  sleep  in  her 
arms,  and  when  I  woke  the  next  morning  she  and 
your  father  had  gone  back  to  Selbyville.  They  sent 
me  some  flowers  afterward,  and  I  wrote  a  letter  to 
her;  but  I  never  saw  them  again." 

Miss  Cawthorne  walked  over  to  the  window,  and, 
parting  the  lace  curtains,  stood  for  some  moments 
looking  out  on  the  scurrying  snowflakes.  Then  she 
turned  back  to  her  guest. 

"And  so,  you  see,"  she  said,  "when  I  heard  them 
184 


THE  CROSS  ROADS,  NEW  YORK 

gossiping  about  you  at  the  theatre,  and  I  learned 
who  you  were,  I  wanted  to  meet  you,  because  you 
were  the  son  of  your  mother,  and  of  your  father." 

"And  you  don't  know  how  I  appreciate  it,"  said 
Brandt.  "I'm  awfully  sorry  I  spoke  as  I  did  a  little 
while  ago  while  you  were  talking  of  my  friendship  for 
Miss  Page.  But,  really,  she  seems  such  an  unusually 
nice  girl  to  me.  I  don't  know  when  I  have  met  any 
one  who  was  sweeter  or  better  bred  in  every  way." 

Miss  Cawthorne  nodded.  "You're  quite  right — 
she  is  very  nice,  and  very,  very  good  to  her  people. 
Do  you  know  her  mother?" 

"I  did  meet  her  once,  but  it  was  just  for  a  moment 
at  the  stage  door.  It  was  so  dark  I  don't  suppose 
I  should  know  her  again  if  I  saw  her." 

While  Brandt  was  talking,  Miss  Cawthorne  leaned 
against  the  window  sash,  looking  down  on  the  snow- 
covered  streets,  deserted  save  for  the  black  cab  at 
the  door. 

"Look,  Mr.  Brandt!"  she  said  suddenly.  "It  is 

clearing  at  last,  and  the  sun  is  really  coming  out. 

Isn't  it  beautiful  ?  I  don't  suppose  that  you  would 

care  to  take  me  up  to  Miss  Page's  now,  would  you  ? 

185 


THE    STAGE    DOOR 

You  see,  I  promised  to  loan  her  something  for  the 
supper  to-night,  and  I'm  sure  she  would  rather  have 
it  before  she  goes  to  the  theatre." 

"I'd  be  only  too  glad,"  Brandt  said  with  enthu- 
siasm. "The  electric  can  get  us  there  in  no  time." 

As  they  turned  into  West  Forty-ninth  Street  Brandt 
began  to  recognize  the  houses  he  had  seen  before 
only  at  night  when  he  had  driven  Miss  Page  home 
after  supper.  "Now  I  begin  to  feel  at  home,"  he  said. 
"It's  funny  I  have  never  been  here  in  the  daylight, 
isn't  it?" 

"Yes,"  replied  Miss  Cawthorne,  "in  a  way  it  is." 
The  cab  stopped  in  front  of  a  high  brick  apartment 
house,  and  Miss  Cawthorne  and  Brandt  went  up 
into  a  narrow  vestibule  and  looked  for  Miss  Page's 
name  under  one  of  the  many  brass  letter  boxes. 
They  found  it  at  last,  and  in  response  to  their  ring 
the  catch  of  the  front  door  clicked  violently,  and 
they  pushed  on  into  a  dark,  narrow  hallway.  Miss 
Cawthorne  had  been  there  before,  so  she  led  the 
way  to  the  winding  stairway  in  the  rear.  The  air  was 
stuffy  and  damp,  and  at  the  first  step  Brandt  caught 
186 


THE  CROSS  ROADS,  NEW  YORK 

his  foot  in  a  hole  in  the  dirty,  badly  patched  carpet. 
Slowly  they  climbed  five  flights  of  twisting  stairs. 
At  the  landings,  slatternly  looking  women  and  chil- 
dren with  dirty  faces  and  bare  legs  came  out  to  stare 
at  them  in  open-mouthed  wonder;  a  man  in  his  shirt 
sleeves  and  without  a  collar  stood  at  the  door  of  his 
apartment  and  looked  them  over  with  insolent  curi- 
osity, and  a  dog  at  his  heels  barked  and  snapped  at 
the  actress's  dress.  At  the  fifth  landing  they  found 
Miss  Page's  mother  waiting  in  semidarkness  for  her 
unknown  guests.  A  beautiful  Pomeranian  dog, 
which  Brandt  had  once  owned,  dashed  out  of  the 
doorway  and  leaped  up,  in  an  effort  to  kiss  the  hand 
of  its  former  master.  At  the  moment,  the  little  thor- 
oughbred, with  its  lithe,  trim  legs  and  beautiful  soft 
coat,  seemed  to  Brandt  to  be  curiously  out  of  place. 
Mrs.  Page  led  them  through  the  narrow  hallway 
to  the  sitting-room,  which  was  at  the  far  end  of  the 
flat,  and  then  disappeared.  A  very  stout  old  man  sat 
in  a  rocking  chair  by  the  window  and  read  the  even- 
ing paper.  He  was  in  his  shirt  sleeves,  and  smoked 
a  heavy  pipe,  and  rocked  continuously.  Just  beyond 
this  room  there  was  another  smaller  one,  where  they 
187 


THE    STAGE    DOOR 

found  Maizie  Page.  She  had  been  dozing  on  a  lounge, 
which  had  been  arranged  as  a  cozy  corner,  and  she 
received  them  sleepily  and  with  evident  surprise. 
The  walls  of  the  room  were  for  the  most  part  covered 
with  a  net,  in  the  meshes  of  which  had  been  arranged 
many  photographs  of  actresses  and  actors  and  of  a  few 
who  were  not  of  the  stage.  There  were  many  flags  and 
long  streamers  of  nearly  all  the  colleges,  and  tin  horns 
and  great  wooden  rattles,  decorated  with  varicolored 
ribbons,  and  cheap  fans  and  souvenir  dolls  from  the 
restaurants.  From  a  window  opening  on  a  broad 
court  the  afternoon  sun  fell  in  a  broad,  unbroken 
shaft  of  soft  orange  light.  Surrounded  by  this  riot  of 
color,  Miss  Page,  dressed  in  a  pink  kimono,  contin- 
ued for  some  moments  to  gaze  with  undisguised 
wonderment  at  her  guests. 

"But  how  was  it  you  came  together?"  she  said  at 
last.  "I  didn't  know  you  knew  Arthur." 

"I  didn't  until  this  afternoon,"  Miss  Cawthorne 
explained  a  little  hurriedly.  "  He  came  to  see  me  about 
another  matter,  and  it  occurred  to  me  you  might 
want  to  fix  these  buckles  before  you  started  for  the 
theatre,  so  I  asked  him  to  bring  me  up  in  his  cab." 
188 


THE   CROSS   ROADS,   NEW  YORK 

Miss  Page  was  wide  awake  now,  and  as  Miss 
Cawthorne  faltered  through  her  speech,  the  young 
girl  looked  directly  into  the  older  woman's  eyes.  "It 
was  good  of  you,"  she  said.  "You  have  the  buckles 
with  you?" 

Miss  Cawthorne  fumbled  nervously  with  the  clasp 
of  the  reticule  that  she  held  in  her  hand,  while  Miss 
Page  stood  waiting  quietly,  her  thin,  colorless  lips 
pressed  into  a  straight  line.  At  last  the  package  con- 
taining the  buckles  was  found,  and  Miss  Cawthorne 
nervously  gave  it  into  Miss  Page's  hand.  The  girl 
walked  over  to  a  closet,  and,  opening  the  door, 
placed  the  package  on  a  high  shelf,  which  was  littered 
with  many  soiled  silk  slippers  and  a  discarded  sailor 
hat.  Against  the  wall  of  the  shallow  closet  and  on 
some  hooks  on  the  inside  of  the  door  were  several 
filmy  dresses  and  silk  petticoats.  In  the  daylight  the 
clothes  seemed  to  look  particularly  unfresh,  and 
the  tiny  spangles  and  the  embroidery  very  cheap 
and  tawdry.  Miss  Page  looked  over  her  shoulder 
at  her  guests,  and  then  pushed  the  door  wide 
open. 

"There!"  she  said.  "Do  you  see  them,  Arthur? 
189 


THE    STAGE    DOOR 

Those  are  the  Cinderella  clothes  that  I  wear  after 
dark." 

From  one  of  the  hooks  the  girl  pulled  a  white 
batiste  skirt  and  waist  and  flung  them  out  in  front  of 
her,  so  that  they  fell  directly  in  the  shaft  of  yellow 
sunshine.  The  skirt  was  badly  crumpled,  and  the 
seam-binding  of  the  waist  was  far  from  fresh. 

"That,"  she  said,  "is  the  dress  I  am  going  to  wear 
to  your  party  this  evening.  It  doesn't  look  very  well 
now,  but  it'll  be  fine  to-night  under  the  gaslight,  I 
promise  you."  The  girl  walked  to  the  doorway. 
"Mother!"  she  called.  "Mother,  I  want  you  to  come 
in  here  for  a  moment." 

Mrs.  Page's  voice  came  indistinctly  from  a  room 
down  the  hallway.  "I  can't  just  now,  dear." 

"Yes,"  called  the  girl — "I  want  you  to  come  at 
once;  just  as  you  are,  please." 

The  mother  came  slowly  down  the  hallway  and 
hesitated  at  the  door,  until  her  daughter  took  her 
hand  and  led  her  into  the  sunlight.  Her  black  hair, 
streaked  with  gray,  hung  loosely  about  her  bent 
shoulders,  the  sleeves  of  her  striped  flannel  wrapper 
were  rolled  up  above  the  elbows,  and  on  her  feet  she 
190 


THE  CROSS  ROADS,  NEW  YORK 

wore  an  old  pair  of  woollen  slippers.  With  one  hand 
she  held  the  gaping,  soiled  wrapper  together,  and 
with  the  other  brushed  loose  strands  of  hair  from  her 
eyes. 

"You  must  pardon  me,  Mr.  Brandt,"  she  said. 
"  I've  been  in  the  kitchen  getting  the  supper  ready — 
my  old  man  gets  hungry  pretty  early." 

"I'm  very  glad  indeed  to  meet  you,"  Brandt  said. 

Mrs.  Page  wiped  her  hand  on  her  apron,  made  a 
half  bow,  half  courtesy,  and  shook  her  guest  warmly 
by  the  hand.  Then  she  glanced  at  her  daughter  and 
got  a  nod  of  permission  to  leave  them.  Miss  Page 
glanced  into  the  next  room  where  the  old  man  was 
smoking. 

"I'm  afraid  I'd  better  not  introduce  you  to  my 
father — he's  very  busy  reading." 

And  then  the  girl  and  her  two  guests,  standing  in 
the  centre  of  the  room,  looked  one  to  the  other  and 
for  some  moments  remained  silent.  The  visit  and  its 
object,  if  object  there  had  been,  were  accomplished, 
and  there  seemed  no  reason  now  for  staying  on.  It 
was  Miss  Cawthorne  who  spoke  first. 

"It's  been  so  nice  to  see  you,  Maizie.  We  must  be 
191 


THE     STAGE    DOOR 

going  now — that  is,  if  Mr.  Brandt  will  take  me  home 
again." 

Brandt  nodded. 

"I'll  see  you  to-night,  dear,"  Miss  Cawthorne 
called  back  from  the  hallway. 

For  the  moment  Maizie  Page  and  Brandt  were 
alone. 

"Good -by,"  he  said,  shaking  hands  with  her. 
"It's  been  very  good  to  have  seen  you  in  your  own 
home." 

The  girl,  still  holding  his  hand,  looked  up  and  tried 
to  smile  through  dimmed  eyes.  "I'm  glad  you  liked 
my  home,"  she  said  simply.  "I  didn't  think  you 
would.  That's  why  I  didn't  ask  you  here  before." 
The  girl  half  turned  and  looked  about  the  little  room, 
gaudy  with  its  cheap  decorations — at  the  faded  pho- 
tographs, the  college  flags,  and  the  paper  dolls,  and 
then  she  glanced  beyond  to  the  old  man  in  his  shirt 
sleeves,  smoking  his  pipe  in  the  next  room. 

"Hurry  up,  Mr.  Brandt!"  Miss  Cawthorne  called 
from  the  end  of  the  hallway. 

"Good-by,"  said  Maizie  Page.  "I'll  see  you  to- 
night after  the  performance  ?  " 
192 


THE  CROSS  ROADS,  NEW  YORK 

"Of  course,"  he  said,  and  raising  her  hand  to  his 
lips,  kissed  the  tips  of  her  fingers. 

Miss  Cawthorne  and  Brandt  settled  back  in  the 
cushions  of  the  cab,  and  were  far  on  their  way  down 
town  before  either  of  them  spoke. 

"  Did  you  enjoy  your  visit?  "  the  actress  said  at  last. 

Brandt  shrugged  his  shoulders.  "Did  you  expect 
me  to  enjoy  it?"  he  asked.  "Did  you  mean  it  as  a 
kindness  to  me?" 

Miss  Cawthorne  looked  straight  ahead  through 
the  window  in  the  front  of  the  hansom.  "I  did  it  for 
you  and  for  the  girl — I  knew  you  didn't  understand 
the  type — I  wanted  you  to  start  fair  with  her.  Thanks 
to  men  like  yourself,  she  knows  two  kinds  of  life — 
you  know  only  one." 

"How  did  you  know  I  didn't  know  about  her 
home?" 

"I  guessed  it — I've  known  a  good  many  of  that 
type — show  business  in  New  York  is  full  of  them." 

"What  is  the  type?"  he  asked. 

"It's  the  type  that  the  outside  public  can't  believe 
exists — I  mean  the  girl  who  is  morally  good,  and 
193 


THE    STAGE    DOOR 

yet  who  accepts  every  kind  of  present  from  a  man 
except  money,  eats  caviare  at  lunch  and  terrapin  at 
supper,  and  is  lucky  if  she  has  bacon  with  her  coffee 
in  the  morning.  They  walk  to  the  theatre  at  night 
and  drive  home  after  supper  in  an  electric  cab,  and 
they  live  west  of  Eighth  Avenue  to  save  five  dollars 
in  the  month's  rent." 

"And  what  is  the  finish  of  that  kind  of  life?"  he 
asked. 

"The  finish  is  that  they  usually  marry  the  man 
who  plays  the  cymbals  in  the  orchestra,  or  the  chief 
usher,  or  the  assistant  treasurer  in  the  box  office,  or 
a  cousin  of  their  mother's  who  is  a  widower  with 
three  children  and  lives  in  Brooklyn." 

"And  then  ?"  asked  Brandt. 

"After  they  are  married  their  husbands  pawn  the 
jewels  and  everything  else  their  admirers  gave  them, 
except  the  photographs  of  the  admirers  themselves — 
which  might  seem  careless,  but  isn't.  That  is  because 
the  women  don't  care  at  all  about  the  admirers  who 
used  to  give  them  violets,  but  are  quite  crazy  about 
their  husbands  who  now  give  them  black  eyes." 

They  were  nearly  home,  and  for  a  moment  the 
194 


THE  CROSS  ROADS,  NEW  YORK 

cab  was  blocked  at  the  corner  where  Fifth  Avenue 
and  Broadway  cross  at  Twenty-third  Street. 

"New  York  is  a  wonderful  city,  just  at  this  corner, 
isn't  it?"  the  actress  ran  on — "just  at  this  hour 
especially,  with  all  the  crowds  and  the  carriages  and 
the  automobiles.  It's  fine!  Did  you  ever  hear  of 
Billy  Straight?" 

Brandt  shook  his  head. 

"  Of  course  not — he  was  before  your  day.  Billy  was 
a  great  friend  of  mine.  He  called  this  corner  'The 
Crossroads/  and  he  used  to  tell  a  funny  story  about 
his  father  stopping  here  late  one  evening,  just  after 
he  had  come  home  to  live  after  leaving  college,  and 
showing  him  the  two  streets — Fifth  Avenue  all  dark 
and  gloomy — there  were  brownstone  dwellings  then 
right  down  to  Twenty-sixth  Street — and  then  he 
pointed  up  Broadway,  all  ablaze  with  lights,  and  the 
doors  wide  open.  'You  can  take  your  choice,  my  boy,' 
the  old  man  said — 'both  roads  are  open  to  you.  It's 
the  question  every  kid  with  money  and  a  position 
has  got  to  decide  for  himself  in  New  York — and 
every  other  town,  I  guess,  too,  only  the  game  is  bigger 
here  and  harder  to  fight.' " 

195 


THE    STAGE    DOOR 

The  cab  had  started  again,  and  they  were  nearing 
Miss  Cawthorne's  home. 

"Well,"  said  the  young  man,  "what  road  did 
Billy  take?" 

The  actress  smiled.  "He  started  up  the  avenue  all 
right  enough;  but  he  turned  off  to  Broadway  one 
night,  and  he  never  got  back  again.  They  never  do." 

The  cab  came  to  a  sudden  stop  at  Miss  Caw- 
thorne's door.  "Poor  old  Billy!"  said  the  woman. 

Brandt  helped  her  out  of  the  hansom.  "  Good-by, 
Miss  Cawthorne.  It  was  very  kind  of  you  to  ask  me 
to  come  to  see  you.  Thank  you  for  the  visit  and  the 
story  about  The  Crossroads,  too." 

The  actress  smiled,  and  held  out  her  hand.  "You 
mustn't  mention  that,"  she  said.  "  I  didn't  expect  or 
want  you  to  thank  me;  I  somehow  felt  that  I  owed  it 
to  your  mother.  We  didn't  have  much  in  common 
and  we  led  very  different  kinds  of  lives,  but  I  guess 
all  old  women  feel  pretty  much  the  same  way  about 
some  things.  I'm  almost  sure  that  she  would  have 
thanked  me — Good-night." 


196 


THE    KIDNAPPERS 


THE    KIDNAPPERS 

IT  was  about  seven  o'clock  in  the  evening  when  I 
returned  to  my  apartment  and  found  the  telegram: 
It  read: 

Meet  me  if  possible  at  Begum  to-night,  ten-thirty.  Im- 
portant. 

WALTER  WAINRIGHT. 

My  friend  Wainwright  might  have  been  a  great 
financier,  or  a  famous  author,  or  an  ambassador  to 
a  European  court,  or  he  might  have  been  pretty  much 
anything  else  that  required  an  extremely  quick  and 
creative  intelligence;  but  he  was,  and  is,  a  theatrical 
manager. 

When  I  first  entered  the  theatre  that  night  in  re- 
sponse to  his  telegram,  I  found  the  second  act  of 
"The  Begum  of  Bo"  well  under  way,  and  Wain- 
wright leaning  on  the  railing  at  the  rear  of  the  orches- 
tra seats.  With  a  pained  expression  he  was  gazing  at 
199 


THE    STAGE    DOOR 

the  stage.  "Comedians  like  those,"  he  said,  "should 
be  arrested  for  grand  larceny.  They  steal  their  stuff 
from  real  actors,  and  then  rob  the  public.  Eh  ?" 

I  nodded.  "What  did  you  want  ?"  I  asked. 

Wainwright  pressed  his  lips  into  a  straight  line 
and  blinked  his  eyes  as  if  his  brain  was  confused 
with  many  thoughts.  "I'm  very  busy,"  he  said;  "but 
I  think  you  can  help  me  a  good  deal.  Have  you  any- 
thing to  do  for  the  next  half  hour  ?  " 

"Nothing,"  I  said,  "for  several  half  hours." 
•  "That's  good — that's  good,"  he  mumbled,  his 
mind  still  apparently  active  with  many  thoughts. 
"If  you  will  go  back  now  on  the  stage  and  look  on 
the  prompt  side,  just  in  front  of  the  switchboard, 
you  will  see  a  beautiful  lady  in  street  costume.  You 
may  think  it's  a  tent,  with  flowers  trailing  over  it; 
but  it's  not — that's  her  hat — and  under  it  you  will 
see  a  really  beautiful  lady.  Tell  her  I  said  that  she 
was  to  follow  you,  and  you  will  probably  find  her 
fairly  docile.  Lead  her  out  of  the  stage  door,  and 
there  you  will  see  a  closed  hack  with  a  couple  of 
dress-suit  cases  and  a  driver  in  front.  Tell  the 
driver  to  take  you  to  the  Forty-second  Street 
200 


THE    KIDNAPPERS 

station,  and  when  you  arrive  pay  the  cabby  his 
fare  and  lead  the  girl  to  gate  number  twelve.  Say 
'Company'  to  the  ticket  man,  and  the  girl  will  do 
the  rest." 

"And  where  do  you  come  in  ?"  I  asked. 

"I  come  in  before  the  train  starts — don't  worry." 

"All  right,"  I  said,  and  started  for  the  little  door 
that  leads  from  the  auditorium  to  the  stage.  There 
certainly  was  a  girl  standing  in  front  of  the  switch- 
board on  the  prompt  side,  and  she  wore  a  spreading 
hat  with  a  great  many  flowers  on  it.  It  was  with  some 
little  difficulty  that  I  pushed  my  way  through  a  small 
army  of  short-skirted  flower-girls  and  armored  war- 
riors with  very  prickly  tin  spears,  who  were  waiting 
to  go  on  the  stage.  At  last  I  reached  the  side  of  the 
lady  and  bowed  in  my  most  respectful  manner. 

"Pardon  me,  madam,"  I  apologized,  "but  Mr. 
Wain wright  says  that  you  are  to  come  with  me." 

The  girl  looked  up  at  me,  I  thought  a  little  wist- 
fully, and  without  more  ado  took  my  arm. 

Slowly  we  picked  our  way  through  the  mob  of 
flower-girls  and  warriors,  and  at  last  reached  the 
door  leading  to  the  street.  There  stood  the  cab  with 
201 


THE    STAGE    DOOR 

the  suit  cases  in  front:  so  I  put  the  lady  in  and  told 
the  driver  to  take  us  with  all  speed  to  the  Grand 
Central  station.  It  is  seldom  I  meet  a  lady  of  whom 
I  know  absolutely  nothing — I  had  even  forgotten  to 
ask  Wainwright  her  name.  For  the  first  time,  I  be- 
lieve, in  my  life  I  found  conversation  most  difficult; 
so  I  casually  remarked,  "It's  a  very  bad  night  for 
such  a  beautiful  hat." 

At  this  the  girl  turned  deliberately  from  me  and 
stared  out  of  the  window,  which  struck  me  as  pecu- 
liarly uncomplimentary,  as  she  could  see  nothing  but 
the  deserted,  storm-swept  streets.  Fortunately,  we 
had  not  very  far  to  go,  and  my  only  other  remark 
was,  I  believe,  "Ah,  here  we  are!" 

I  helped  the  lady  to  alight,  paid  the  cabman,  and, 
seizing  a  suit  case  in  either  hand,  led  her  through  the 
station  to  gate  Number  Twelve. 

"Company,"  said  I  to  the  guard  at  the  gate,  and 
passed  on. 

At  this  point  a  middle-aged    individual,  having 

rather  the  appearance  of  a  plain-clothes  man  from 

police  head-quarters,  respectfully  bowed  to  the  lady, 

and  relieved  me  of  the  dress-suit  cases.  Preceding 

202 


THE    KIDNAPPERS 

us  to  a  sleeping  car,  he  opened  the  door  of  a  compart- 
ment, and,  putting  down  the  suit  cases,  delivered 
himself  of  a  profound  salaam  and  bowed  himself 
away.  No  sooner  had  he  left  us  than  the  spirits  of 
the  lady  seemed  at  once  to  revive.  She  took  off  the 
large  hat  and  showed  a  wonderful  mass  of  golden 
brown  hair,  which  was  worn  high  over  her  broad 
clear  forehead. 

"Come  in,"  she  said,  turning  to  me  as  I  stood 
hesitating  in  the  doorway. 

For  some  moments  we  sat  in  the  compartment  in 
silence,  regarding  each  other  with  much  apparent 
curiosity  and  amusement. 

"Why  have  I  never  seen  you  before?"  I  asked  at 
last,  and  it  really  seemed  to  me  then  as  if  I  should 
have  known  her  always.  At  the  moment  I  could  not 
understand  how  a  girl  with  such  beauty  and  a  per- 
sonality that  could  take  possession  of  me  as  hers  had 
done  should  not  be  known  to  every  one. 

"You  have  seen  me  before  on  the  stage,"  she  said, 
"  I  have  often  seen  you." 

"It  doesn't  seem  quite  possible."  I  protested. 

"On  the  contrary,  almost  every  one  in  the  com- 
203 


THE    STAGE    DOOR 

pany  at  least  knew  who  you  were.  I  was  quite  un- 
known to  fame  then,  and  am  now,  and  shall  be  until 
Wednesday." 

"What!"  I  said;  but  I  said  no  more,  for  I  felt  the 
car  give  a  sudden  jolt  and  then  move  evenly  forward 
on  its  way  out  of  the  station.  I  jumped  to  my  feet 
and  turned  to  the  door;  but  while  I  had  been  talking 
to  my  beautiful  friend  some  one  had  closed  it,  and 
when  I  tried  the  knob  I  found  that  it  had  been 
locked  as  well.  I  turned  back  to  the  girl  and  found 
her  looking  at  me  with  crinkled  brow  and  the  tips  of 
her  mouth  pointed  upward  in  an  amused  smile.  I  re- 
gained my  composure  as  well  as  I  could  and  started 
toward  the  electric  button. 

"Apparently  we  are  locked  in,"  I  said  cheerfully. 

"Apparently,"  she  replied.  "It's  not  worth  while 
ringing  the  bell — no  one  will  come." 

I  sat  down  and  smiled  back  at  her  smiling  eyes. 
"Am  I  kidnapped  ?"  I  asked. 

At  that  moment  there  was  a  knock  at  the  door. 
"There  is  Wainwright,"  she  said;  "I  think  I'll  let 
him  explain." 

The  door  opened,  and  Wainwright  came  in.  He 
204 


THE    KIDNAPPERS 

was  actually  grinning  at  me,  and  apparently  per- 
fectly delighted  with  himself. 

"Well,"  I  asked,  "is  this  your  idea  of  a  joke?" 

He  sat  down  at  the  end  of  the  long  lounge  opposite 
me  and  tapped  the  end  of  his  boot  with  the  ferule 
of  his  cane. 

"Not  a  joke  at  all,"  he  said  briskly — "business, 
theatrical  business.  Now  listen  sharply,  please,  be- 
cause I  have  to  get  off  at  One  Hundred  and  Twenty- 
fifth  Street,  and  of  course,  if  you  wish  to  get  off  with 
me  I  can't  prevent  you.  Have  you  met  Miss  Aber- 
crombie?" 

I  bowed  in  the  direction  of  the  lady.  "I  have  had  the 
honor  of  chatting  with  her  for  some  few  moments." 

Wainwright  stopped  grinning  and  suddenly  be- 
came serious — that  is,  as  serious  as  he  ever  could  be. 
"Miss  Abercrombie — Alice  Abercrombie — is  a  find 
of  mine;  I  discovered  her  playing  a  small  part  in  one 
of  my  own  comic-opera  companies  and  was  attracted 
by  her  beauty,  and  then  by  her  unusual  intelligence. 
I  decided  then  that  I  would  make  her  the  greatest 
woman  star  in  America.  For  two  years  I  have  made 
her  work  in  road  companies,  and  have  spent  large 
205 


THE    STAGE    DOOR 

sums  in  having  her  taught  how  to  sing  and  dance; 
all  of  the  other  accomplishments  she  already  had. 
Now  I  think  she  is  ready  to  star.  I  have  booked  her 
in  'The  Princess  Popinjay,'  beginning  next  Wednes- 
day, for  ten  days  of  one-night  stands  before  she 
opens  at  Denver.  I  intend  to  have  her  make  a  sensa- 
tion out  there,  and  come  to  New  York  this  spring 
with  the  rumor  of  a  Western  furore  back  of  her.  She 
is  going  to  do  in  comic  opera  what  Mary  Anderson 
did  in  Shakespeare  thirty  years  ago,  or  I  shall  miss 
my  guess  and  lose  a  great  deal  of  money." 

"And  where  do  I  come  in  ?"  I  asked. 

"You  must  help  create  the  furore.  At  some  time  in 
the  career  of  every  great  male  star,  and  it  usually 
happened  when  his  business  was  very  bad,  he  has 
been  pursued  by  a  beautiful  veiled  lady,  and  the 
same  thing  applies  to  every  woman  star,  only  the 
mysterious  stranger  was  a  man.  Now  you  are  to  be 
the  mysterious  stranger,  only  with  a  few  new  varia- 
tions. I  chose  you  for  the  part  because  you  have  a 
particularly  showy  wardrobe  and  a  sense  of  humor. 
I  have  had  the  press  agent  ahead  of  the  show  feature 
you  about  as  prominently  as  Miss  Abercrombie.  In 
206 


THE    KIDNAPPERS 

some  towns  you  will  find  yourself  referred  to  as  a 
well-known  American  iron  king,  sometimes  as  an 
Austrian  count,  and  again  as  a  titled  Englishman. 
If  you  read  the  local  papers  in  the  towns  you  visit, 
you  will  find  your  picture  prominently  displayed." 

"My  picture!"  I  gasped.  "I  haven't  had  my  pho- 
tograph taken  for  twenty  years!" 

"Please  don't  interrupt,"  said  Wainwright — 
"we're  out  of  the  tunnel  already.  The  photographs 
are  some  I  found  in  my  office — mostly  of  bad  actors 
looking  for  a  job." 

"And  this  wardrobe  you  are  pleased  to  speak  of  so 
flatteringly?"  I  demanded. 

"I  telephoned  your  man  about  that  while  you 
were  out  dining  this  evening.  It  is  all  in  the  state 
room  in  the  next  car.  By  referring  to  the  morning 
papers  in  each  town,  you  can  find  out  whether  you 
are  an  Austrian  count,  titled  Englishman,  or  plain 
American  iron  magnate  and  then  you  can  register 
as  such  and  dress  accordingly.  You  will,  of  course, 
be  interviewed  by  the  local  papers,  and  must  express 
yourself  freely.  Do  you  know  anything  about  Aus- 
tria?" 

207 


THE    STAGE    DOOR 

"Nothing,"  I  said. 

"Well,  the  main  street  of  Vienna  is  called  'The 
Ringstrasse,'  and  the  parliament  is  generally  known 
as  the  Reichsrath.  You  will  also  probably  be  asked 
about  the  politics  at  home.  Of  course  you  know  all 
about  England.  I  forget  just  what  county  your  fam- 
ily came  from  over  there;  but  here  you  are  naturally 
a  Pittsburger,  where  you  live  with  your  folks,  who 
hate  your  devotion  to  Miss  Abercrombie,  the  beauti- 
ful actress." 

"Pardon  me,"  I  said;  "but  why  could  you  not 
have  explained  all  this  to  me  at  supper  last  night  ?  " 

"Perfectly  simple,"  he  replied  suavely.  "Because, 
surrounded  as  you  were  then  by  all  the  flesh-pots  of 
town,  you  would  have  refused.  Under  existing  con- 
ditions, how  can  you?"  and  he  bowed  low  to  Miss 
Abercrombie. 

"Pardon  me  again,"  I  asked;  "but  am  I  supposed 
to  know  the  lady  ?  " 

"Certainly,"  said  Wainwright  a  little  peevishly  at 

my  stupidity.  "You  must  be  seen  dining  with  her 

occasionally,  and  always  with  sad,  hungry  eyes.  You 

see,  she  doesn't  really  like  you :  she  is  wedded  to  her 

208 


THE    KIDNAPPERS 

art.  At  night  you  must  sit  in  an  upper  stage  box 
and " 

"Look  sad  and  hungry?"  I  suggested. 

"That's  it— sad  and  hungry." 

"How  about  my  engagements  in  town  for  the 
next  two  weeks?" 

"That's  all  right.  Wire  your  servant  to  advise  your 
friends  that  you've  been  called  away  on  important 
business.  Understand,  don't  you  wire  direct,  or  some 
one  might  know  where  you  are.  I  want  you  to  lose 
yourself  entirely.  And  above  all  be  a  sport — don't 
lose  your  sense  of  humor  entirely.  Think  of  being 
the  only  man  in  New  York  I  thought  worth  kid- 
napping! You  are  always  complaining  about  the 
dulness  of  the  long  days  and  the  adventureless 
nights.  Nowyou've  got  all  the  adventure  you'll  want." 

The  train  gradually  began  to  slow  down.  Wain- 
wright  jumped  up  and  opened  the  door  of  the  com- 
partment. "Here's  Harlem,  and  I  must  leave  you. 
And,  I  say,  don't  forget  to  look  me  up  when  you  get 
back.  I  really  want  to  hear  what  you  think  of  the 
play.  Good-by,  children." 

I,  too,  jumped  to  my  feet.  "Why  don't  you  go 
209 


THE    STAGE    DOOR 

yourself?"  I  shouted  at  him  somewhat  ungallantly 
just  as  the  train  came  to  a  full  stop. 

"No!"  he  said.  "I  couldn't  stand  that  route,  not 
even  with  Alice  along."  He  waved  his  cane  at  us,  the 
door  slammed  in  my  face,  and  I  heard  him  chuckling 
loudly  as  he  hurried  by  the  compartment  on  his  way 
to  the  platform.  I  turned  and  looked  at  the  raised 
eyebrows  and  big  searching  eyes  of  the  actress  look- 
ing into  my  own. 

"And  you  didn't  want  to  go,"  she  said  very  slowly; 
"really,  did  you?" 

Our  train  was  moving  again  so  I  sat  down  on  the 
edge  of  the  green  velvet  lounge  and  looked  beyond 
her  out  of  the  blurred  window  pane  at  the  glistening 
station  platform  and  the  slowly  passing  houses  with 
their  dripping  roofs.  Through  my  mind  there  flashed 
the  thought  of  many  pleasant  things  I  had  promised 
myself  for  the  next  two  weeks.  Then  I  turned  back  to 
the  girl  and  found  her  looking  at  me  as  I  knew  she 
would  look,  just  as  I  know  the  photograph  of  her  on 
the  mantel  back  of  me  is  looking  at  me  now. 

"Of  course  I  wanted  to  come,"  I  said;  "but  really 
that  doesn't  make  much  difference,  because  when 
210 


THE    KIDNAPPERS 

you  open  your  eyes  wide  and  crinkle  your  brow,  I 
would  follow  you,  I  think,  to  almost  any  place.  I'm 
willing  to  admit  that  I'm  kidnapped;  but  by  a  beau- 
tiful woman,  not  by  any  fool  trick  of  Wainwright." 

The  girl  shrugged  her  shoulders,  smiled,  and 
leaned  back  against  the  cushions  in  the  corner  of 
the  compartment. 

"  Good-night,"  I  said,  as  I  rose  from  the  lounge. 

She  nodded  to  me  and,  still  smiling,  folded  her 
arms. 

I  found  the  manager  in  the  next  car,  and  he 
greeted  me  with  the  same  servile  grin  with  which  he 
had  met  us  at  the  train  gate. 

"I'm  Ben  Adler,"  he  said.  "I'm  travelling  with  the 
show,  and  my  instructions  are  to  make  you  as  com- 
fortable as  possible." 

"It  seems  to  me,"  I  answered  somewhat  crisply, 
"that  if  you  follow  your  instructions,  you  ought  to 
make  me  pretty  uncomfortable,  with  your  Austrian 
counts  and  titled  Englishmen  and  your  interviews. 
Where  do  I  sleep,  anyhow  ?  Is  this  a  special  train  ?" 

Adler  grinned.  "Of  course  it's  a  special  train — 
we're  travelling  in  great  style.  Your  compartment  is 
211 


THE    STAGE    DOOR 

at  the  end  of  this  car;  but  there's  a  cold  lunch  up 
ahead.  Perhaps  you  would  like  to  meet  some  of  the 
company?" 

I  was  nervous  and  far  from  sleepy;  so  I  followed 
him  to  the  forward  car,  which  was  a  day  coach.  It 
was  filled  with  perhaps  thirty  women  and  about 
half  as  many  men.  In  the  aisle  there  was  a  long  case 
partly  filled  with  bottles  of  stout  and  beer,  and  on 
one  of  the  seats  there  was  a  tray  of  thick  sandwiches. 
Nearly  all  of  the  men  were  smoking  cigars  or  pipes, 
and  a  few  of  the  women  cigarettes.  The  car  was 
stuffy  and  hot  and  the  smoke  so  thick  that  it  was 
difficult  at  first  to  recognize  the  faces  about  me.  A 
show  girl  whom  I  once  had  met  at  supper  greeted 
me  cordially. 

"It's  funny  to  see  you  here,"  she  said.  "I  didn't 
know  Wainwright  was  with  the  show." 

"He's  not,"  Adler  interrupted;  "the  gentleman's 
a  friend  of  Miss  Abercrombie.  He's  going  with  us 
as  far  as  Denver." 

"My  word!"  said  the  show  girl.  "Shake  hands 
with  my  chum,  Miss  Armstrong.  Rita,  wake  up — 
you're  not  in  Philadelphia!" 
212 


THE    KIDNAPPERS 

Miss  Armstrong  was  a  large,  heavy-eyed  girl 
dressed  in  a  shirtwaist  and  she  wore  a  great  deal  of 
cheap  jewelry.  "  Pleased  to  meet  you,"  she  mumbled, 
pulling  herself  out  of  the  hot  plush  seat.  "What 
name,  please?" 

"Come  on,"  interrupted  Adler.  "I  want  you  to 
meet  some  of  the  principals." 

"Just  fancy!"  said  Miss  Armstrong.  "Really,  you 
know,  we  can't  all  be  principals."  Then  she  yawned 
and  snuggled  back  into  the  corner  to  resume  her  in- 
terrupted doze. 

As  we  walked  down  the  aisle,  the  girls  lying  back 
in  the  seats  eyed  us  with  a  certain  bovine  interest, 
and  those  who  were  sufficiently  awake  and  not  too 
engrossed  with  the  sandwiches  commented  audibly 
on  the  honor  of  my  unexpected  presence.  At  the  far 
end  of  the  car  we  found  a  party  of  four — two  men 
and  two  women  playing  hearts.  There  was  Baker, 
who  I  learned  afterward  was  the  second  comedian, 
and  who  imagined  that  he  ought  to  be  continually 
comic  off  as  well  as  on  the  stage;  Carroll,  who  in  the 
opera  played  the  lover  lieutenant  in  the  inevitable 
white  duck  uniform,  and  who  was  a  third-class  Eng- 
213 


THE    STAGE    DOOR 

lishman;  Miss  Belden,  the  rough  soubrette  of  the 
company;  and  a  very  young  and  pretty  girl  named 
Ryan,  who  played  a  small  part,  and  who,  it  seemed 
to  me,  rather  outclassed  her  present  company.  They 
stopped  playing  cards  long  enough  to  shake  hands 
with  me  and  express  their  pleasure  that  I  was  to  be 
of  the  party  for  so  long  a  time.  Miss  Belden  crowded 
over  toward  Carroll  and  gave  me  a  nodded  invitation 
to  sit  on  the  arm  of  the  chair  next  to  her. 

"Make  my  friend  comfortable,"  said  Adler,  and 
he  left  us.  The  card  players  resumed  their  game.  A 
small,  black-eyed  chorus  girl  moved  over  from  her 
place  across  the  aisle  and  sat  on  the  arm  of  the  seat 
opposite  me  and  next  to  Baker.  "Have  some?"  she 
said,  holding  out  a  tumbler  half  filled  with  beer;  but 
I  thanked  her  and  declined. 

"Back,  back,  little  one!"  Baker  growled.  "Take 
your  arm  off  the  back  of  my  seat,  and  don't  butt  in ! " 

"What  are  you  playing?"  said  the  girl  without 
moving. 

"Hearts  at  a  dollar  a  point." 

"My!"  said  the  chorus  girl.  "Ain't  it  wonderful 
how  you  Broadway  comedians  can  gamble  on  forty 
214 


THE    KIDNAPPERS 

a  week !  Did  you  hear  the  name  of  that  town  we  open 
at  ?  It's  a  flag  station  on  a  trolley  line,  I  think." 

"Prescott's  a  good  town,"  said  Miss  Ryan.  "Miss 
Abercrombie  has  played  there  before." 

"Is  it  possible?"  said  the  chorus  girl.  "I  suppose 
they'll  meet  her  with  a  brass  band,  and  the  town  con- 
stable will  make  a  speech  and  give  her  a  dollar  watch 
from  the  stage.  It's  great  to  be  an  established  star." 

"She's  a  friend  of  this  gentleman  here,"  said  Miss 
Belden,  sorting  her  cards. 

The  chorus  girl  looked  at  me  with  apparently  re- 
newed interest  and  smiled  her  apology.  "I  guess  I'm 
out  of  my  set.  Me  for  bed.  Good-night,  all!" 

The  car  had  become  very  quiet  now,  as  all  the 
women  had  either  curled  upon  the  plush  seats  or  gone 
to  their  berths  in  the  other  cars.  The  card  players 
gambled  on  in  silence,  and  as  it  seemed  this  might 
continue  indefinitely,  I,  too,  bade  them  good-night 
and  went  to  my  compartment. 

When  the  porter  called  me  the  next  day  he  an- 
nounced that  they  had  put  on  a  restaurant  car;  and 
so  when  I  was  dressed  I  went  out  and  ordered  my 
breakfast.  It  was  too  early  for  the  members  of  the 
215 


THE    STAGE    DOOR 

company  to  be  about,  and  I  found  myself  quite  alone. 
We  had  already  travelled  far  from  home,  and  were 
racing  through  what  was,  at  least  to  me,  a  very  new 
and  beautiful  country.  The  car  itself  was  fresh,  and 
the  air  was  clean  and  a  most  pleasant  contrast  to  the 
day  coach  of  the  night  before.  Outside  it  was  a  won- 
derful cloudless  morning  in  early  January,  and  under 
the  blue  sky  the  trees,  dripping  with  icicles,  shim- 
mered and  sparkled  in  the  morning  sun,  and  the 
land  stretched  out  as  one  great  field  of  unbroken 
snow. 

Before  my  breakfast  had  been  served  Alice  Aber- 
crombie  came  in  and  sat  down  on  the  other  side  of 
my  little  table.  She  was  dressed  in  a  simple  shirtwaist 
and  a  short  cloth  skirt,  and  her  eyes  were  as  bright 
and  her  skin  as  clear  and  fresh  as  the  winter  day  itself . 

"Good-morning.  And  what  do  you  think  of 
trouping?"  she  said,  reaching  out  her  hand  to  me 
across  the  table. 

"To  be  candid,"  I  replied,  "it  apparently  varies 
more  or  less.  I  had  the  pleasure  of  meeting  the  com- 
pany after  I  left  you  last  night,  and  the  car  they  were 
in  seems  to  have  left  rather  unpleasant  recollections 
216 


THE    KIDNAPPERS 

of  flat  beer  and  stale  smoke.  But  this  is  fine,  isn't  it  ? 
What  are  you  going  to  have  for  breakfast  ?  " 

Miss  Abercrombie  looked  out  of  the  window  at  the 
stretches  of  glistening  snow,  and  the  smile  vanished. 
"I  haven't  met  many  of  the  chorus,"  she  said.  "I 
thought  they  seemed  a  rather  good  sort  at  rehearsal." 

"I  didn't  refer  to  the  company,"  I  interrupted — 
"I  only  said  that  the  car  was  stuffy.  As  a  matter  of 
fact,  they  seemed  rather  too  engrossed  in  their  game 
of  cards  last  night  for  me  to  interrupt.  I  thought  Miss 
Ryan  very  pretty  to  look  at." 

Miss  Abercrombie  raised  her  eyebrows.  "I  sup- 
pose she  is  pretty." 

"Did  you  ever  travel  like  that  ?"  I  asked,  nodding 
to  the  forward  car. 

"You  ask  such  simple,  direct  questions,"  she  said. 
"If  you  mean  did  I  ever  travel  in  day  coaches  with 
the  company,  I  certainly  did.  Personally,  I  am  not 
partial  to  cards,  and  I  prefer  clear  air  to  tobacco 
smoke;  but  one  can  read  a  good  book,  even  a  helpful 
book,  and  at  the  same  time  breathe  bad  air.  I  never 
had  any  choice — this  is  the  first  time  I  ever  had  a 
compartment  in  a  sleeping  car." 
217 


THE    STAGE    DOOR 

"You  weren't  always  in  this  business  ?"  I  said. 

The  girl  shook  her  head.  "You're  so  naif  that  I 
really  can't  help  answering  you.  No,  my  life  had 
nothing  to  do  with  the  stage  until  the  last  few  years; 
but  a  few  years  is  long  enough  to  make  one  appre- 
ciate the  drawing-room  on  a  Pullman.  It  has  all  the 
privacy  of  the  hall  bedroom  in  my  boarding-house  on 
Forty-eighth  Street,  and  the  furnishing  is  wonderfully 
better." 

"But  you  prefer  the  hall  bedroom  and — and 
Broadway  ?  " 

The  girl  looked  up  sharply,  and  her  big  eyes 
flashed  at  me.  "I  didn't  say  anything  about  Broad- 
way— there  are  many  other  streets  in  New  York,  al- 
though most  men  think  because  a  woman  is  on  the 
stage  that  she  doesn't  know  it." 

"I  am  sorry,"  I  said,  and  I  meant  it. 

Miss  Abercrombie  shrugged  her  shoulders.  "There 
are  other  streets,"  she  said,  "and  there  are  other 
restaurants  than  Martin's  and  Rector's,  and  there 
are  other  places  to  take  afternoon  tea  than  the  Wal- 
dorf and  the  Plaza.  For  instance,  there  is  the  hall 
bedroom  I  was  talking  about  on  Forty-eighth  Street, 
218 


THE    KIDNAPPERS 

away  over  on  the  West  Side,  where  you  can  get  a  cup 
of  tea.  The  kettle  is  made  of  tin  and  badly  dented, 
and  the  cups  are  chipped  and  the  oil  lamp  smokes; 
but  it  doesn't  smell  of  musk,  and  one  is  not  wedged 
in  by  a  hundred  befurred  and  bevioleted  ladies  from 
the  upper  West  Side.  You  probably  wouldn't  care  for 
the  room,  because  it's  different — different  from  what 
you  know  and  different  from  what  you  would  expect. 
The  carpet  is  ragged  and  full  of  holes;  but  I  love 
every  hole  in  it.  There  is  also  a  rip  in  the  seat  of  the 
rocking-chair,  and  everything  sags,  even  the  bed; 
but  I  have  slept  there  so  long  that  every  bump  and 
every  billow  of  it  I  regard  as  an  old  friend." 

"It  must  be  a  wonderful  room,"  I  said,  "to  have 
you  care  for  it  as  you  do.  What  else  is  there?" 

The  girl  pushed  her  plate  away  from  her  and 
talked  on.  "Well,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  there  isn't 
much  else.  There  are  some  photographs  which  I  take 
away  on  the  road,  and  a  shelf  of  books  that  a  few 
men  sent  me  who  know  that  there  are  shops  in  New 
York  where  you  can  buy  something  else  besides 
American  beauties  and  a  bunch  of  violets  with 
purple  tassels." 

219 


THE    STAGE    DOOR 

"And  now  that  you  are  a  star,"  I  asked,  "you  will 
go  back  to  Forty-eighth  Street?" 

The  girl  rested  the  tips  of  her  fingers  of  both  hands 
before  her  on  the  edge  of  the  table  and  drew  back  in 
her  chair.  She  looked  at  me  with  wide-open  eyes,  as 
if  my  question  had  suggested  all  the  changes  that 
were  to  come  with  her  new  life. 

"No,"  she  said,  "I  can't  go  back  there.  I'll  have 
to  go  to  an  apartment  hotel,  and  eat  in  a  dining- 
room  with  palms  and  mirrors — won't  I  ? — and  have 
my  meals  at  regular  hours,  and  build  up  my  health 
that  the  quick  lunches  and  the  all-night  restaurants 
broke  down  long  ago." 

"As  bad  as  that?"  I  asked. 

"You  don't  know  what  the  road  life  is — I  mean 
to  live  it,  year  in  and  year  out.  It  isn't  the  acting;  but 
it's  the  everlasting  travel  and  the  dressing  in  dirty 
damp  rooms  and  the  eating  when  you  get  the  chance 
— sometimes  starving  just  because  there  is  no  place 
to  eat.  And  then,  when  our  digestion  is  gone,  and  the 
very  life  has  been  sapped  out  of  us,  somebody  writes 
us  a  song  or  a  wonderful  part,  and  we  make  a  hit, 
and  they  turn  the  spotlight  on  us,  and  give  us  a  draw- 


THE    KIDNAPPERS 

ing-room  in  a  sleeping  car,  and  a  maid,  and  a  cab 
to  the  hotel." 

"But  there  are  the  helpful  books  that  you  admit 
can  be  read  in  smoking  cars,  and  there  is  always  the 
prospect  of  New  York  and  the  friends  waiting  for 
you  there." 

The  girl  stared  at  me  and  shook  her  head.  "But 
the  friends  don't  always  wait.  They  forget  us  in  time, 
because  they  find  new  friends;  and  then  we  wish  we 
were  back  on  the  road  again  with  our  own — our  own, 
do  you  understand;  not  the  chance  acquaintance, 
but  the  women  and  men  we  work  and  live  and  play 
with." 

"Your  own  ?"  I  repeated. 

"Yes,  my  own.  There  are  no  outsiders  in  this 
business.  You  must  be  in  it,  and  of  it,  or  you  can't 
exist  in  it.  It's  a  life  all  of  itself,  and  down  in  our 
hearts  we  love  it." 

"Notwithstanding,"  I  said,  "I  never  met  any  one 
on  the  stage  just  like  you.  You're — well,  you're  dif- 
ferent." 

The  girl  looked  at  me  evenly  in  the  eyes  and 
smiled.  "Every  one  is  different.  Did  you  ever  know 
221 


THE    STAGE    DOOR 

any  woman  in  any  walk  of  life  who  was  like  any 
other  woman  ?  I  may  dress  differently  from  some  of 
those  girls  you  saw  last  night,  and  may  live  differently, 
and  may  read  books  instead  of  the  evening  papers; 
but  we  all  belong  just  as  much " 

"Just  as  much,"  I  interrupted,  "as  I  don't 
belong." 

"Just  as  much,"  she  repeated,  "as  you  don't  and 
can't  belong."  Miss  Abercrombie  smiled  and  rose 
from  the  table.  "Here  are  some  of  your  friends  of  last 
night.  Come  and  see  me  later  on  in  the  drawing- 
room." 

She  stepped  aside  to  let  Baker,  the  second  come- 
dian, go  by,  and  as  she  did  so  he  patted  her  famil- 
iarly on  the  shoulder  and  gave  her  arm  a  gentle 
squeeze. 

"Good-morning,  little  girl,"  he  said  genially. 

She  followed  him  with  her  eyes  down  the  aisle  and 
then  turned  to  me,  crinkled  her  brow,  and  smiled. 
"You  see,"  she  said,  "we  are  one  people.  Come  back 
and  see  me  soon,  Mr.  Outsider.  Don't  forget  you  are 
here  as  my  professional  admirer,  not  as  Miss  Ryan's, 
or  some  of  those  wonderful  show  girls." 


THE    KIDNAPPERS 

Later  I  went  back  to  visit  Miss  Abercrombie;  and 
there  it  was  that  I  spent  most  of  that  day  and  the 
next  day,  for  our  journey  was  a  long  one. 

In  a  way,  I  think  that  perhaps  those  days  were  the 
best  of  any  journey  that  I  can  remember  now. 

Between  us  there  was  no  word  of  shop  or  home 
or  work;  just  the  talk  of  a  girl  who  had  read,  and 
read  very  well,  a  girl  to  whom  hard  experience  had 
given  a  big  sane  view  of  life,  a  girl  who  had  become 
a  philosopher  in  her  own  right.  She  had  been  talking 
to  me  once  of  the  early  French  dramatists  and  the 
effect  they  had  had  on  the  playwrights  of  to-day, 
and  her  views,  like  all  her  views,  were  at  least  indi- 
vidual. When  she  had  finished,  I  looked  down  at  the 
tip  of  her  shoe. 

"Is  that  the  toe  of  the  boot  of  the  well-known 
dancing  soubrette,  Alice  Abercrombie?"  I  asked. 

"Wait  till  you  see  me  Wednesday  night,"  she  said, 
"and  I'll  show  you  a  dance!  Much  more  interesting 
than  Racine,  I  promise  you." 

For  the  greater  part  of  those  two  days  we  were  by 
ourselves;  but  occasionally  we  received  visits  from 
Adler,  who  forever  talked  of  the  stars  he  had  man- 
223 


THE    STAGE    DOOR 

aged  and  their  eccentricities.  Marie  Belden,  the 
soubrette,  and  Altha  Ryan  and  Carroll  and  Baker, 
too,  came  into  the  drawing-room  several  times;  but 
these  visits  for  the  most  part  were  short  and  pro- 
ductive only  of  sighs  of  regret  for  Broadway  and  the 
other  haunts  of  the  actors'  pet  city. 

When  I  awoke  on  the  last  morning  of  our  journey 
I  found  that  the  train  was  side  tracked  at  Prescott; 
and  from  my  window  I  could  see  that  the  real  work 
of  the  tour  of  "The  Princess  Popinjay"  had  begun. 
Long  drays  were  backed  up  to  the  cars  for  the  scen- 
ery, and  heavy  express  wagons  were  carting  away 
the  costume  trunks  and  crates  of  properties.  Youths 
whom  I  had  seen  lolling  about  the  train  or  playing 
poker  with  the  chorus  girls  had  suddenly  become 
galvanized  into  men  of  authority,  and  were  quietly 
but  surely  bringing  order  out  of  what  seemed  to  me 
the  most  hopeless  chaos.  Above  it  all  Ben  Adler 
ruled  supreme.  One  moment  he  was  giving  direc- 
tions as  to  how  to  load  a  particularly  heavy  piece  of 
scenery,  and  the  next  with  a  Chesterfieldian  grace 
was  conducting  a  show  girl  to  a  hotel  omnibus.  In  the 
midst  of  it  all  he  seemed  to  remember  me;  for  he 
224 


THE    KIDNAPPERS 

came  dashing  into  the  car  and  knocked  on  the  door 
of  my  compartment. 

"Don't  forget,  you  are  to  be  the  iron  magnate 
to-day,"  he  said.  "You'll  find  a  room  engaged  for 
you  at  the  Holter  House  in  the  name  of  Henry  Speed. 
Miss  Abercrombie  will  be  ready  as  soon  as  you  are. 
You're  to  take  her  up  in  a  sleigh.  It's  something  of  a 
drive  to  the  town." 

I  had  seen  a  few  Pittsburg  millionaires  at  the 
Holland  House,  and  could  not  remember  that  there 
was  anything  particularly  distinctive  about  their 
dress;  but  I  picked  out  a  particularly  lively  gray 
waistcoat  with  a  black  tape  binding,  and  with  this 
and  a  pair  of  white  spats  felt  that  I  rather  looked  the 
part.  Alice  Abercrombie  joined  me,  and  a  moment 
later  we  were  racing  along  the  country  road  that  led 
to  the  town. 

"Fine,  Alice!"  said  I.  It  was  the  first  time  that  I 
had  called  her  Alice;  but  I  thought  that  the  condi- 
tions excused  it. 

"Alice!"  she  repeated,  and  crinkled  her  brow  and 
pointed  the  tips  of  her  mouth  in  the  same  inscrutable 
smile. 

225 


THE    STAGE    DOOR 

"Yes,  Alice,"  I  said,  and  being  in  a  sleigh  on  a  de- 
serted road  on  a  wonderful  morning  in  January,  I 
took  her  gloved  hand  in  mine,  and  raising  it  to  my 
lips  kissed  the  tips  of  her  fingers.  The  girl  slowly 
withdrew  her  hand  from  mine  and  settled  back  in 
the  cushions  of  the  sleigh.  Her  cheeks  were  flushed 
with  the  sharp  morning  air;  but  the  smile  went  out 
of  her  eyes,  and  for  the  rest  of  our  little  ride  she 
looked  away  from  me  and  out  at  the  snow-covered 
fields. 

We  separated  at  the  hotel  and  I  went  to  my  room 
to  be  interviewed  by  the  reporter  of  the  only  evening 
newspaper.  I  talked  of  the  Pittsburg  art  gallery, 
which  I  never  had  seen,  and  the  Pittsburg  orchestra, 
which  I  never  had  heard,  and  even  spoke  encourag- 
ingly of  preferred  steel,  which  I  never  owned ;  but  at 
mention  of  the  tender  mission  which  brought  me  to 
Prescott  I  blushed,  but  refused  to  talk,  and  with  a 
few  laudatory  words  on  the  beauty  of  the  town  I  al- 
lowed my  reporter  friend  to  depart.  Later  I  went 
down  to  the  lobby  of  the  hotel,  where  I  found  the 
men  of  the  company  sitting  about  and  I  asked  them 
into  the  cafe,  where  we  drank  to  the  success  of  the 
226 


THE    KIDNAPPERS 

new  play.  Afterwards  I  lunched  with  Carroll  and 
Altha  Ryan  and  for  some  time  we  talked  as  we 
three  had  always  talked  of  New  York. 

"I  suppose  this  amuses  you?"  Carroll  said. 

"Of  course,"  I  replied;  "it's  a  new  story  to  me. 
I  like  the  idea  of  new  towns  and  new  faces." 

Carroll  nodded.  "I  suppose  it  was  like  that  to  me 
once;  but  I  can't  remember  it.  New  towns  don't  mean 
anything  to  me  any  more.  Do  they  to  you,  Altha  ?  " 

The  girl  shook  her  head. 

"There  is  just  a  depot,"  he  went  on,  "and  a  hotel 
and  an  'opry  house,'  and  then  there's  another  depot 
and  a  hotel  and  an  'opry  house.'  The  people  are  all 
alike;  they  belong  to  the  town,  and  you  don't.  You're 
'the  troupe,'  and  you  come  and  go  like  a  snow  that 
lasts  over  one  night.  The  people  are  nothing  to  you, 
and  you  are  nothing  to  them.  If  you  haven't  got 
friends  in  the  company,  Heaven  help  you!" 

"That's  right,  Jim,"  said  the  girl;  "it's  'the 
troupe'  or  nothing." 

"Well,"  I  interrupted,  smiling,  "personally  I  like 
'the  troupe.'  I  only  wish  you  were  all  as  satisfied  as 
I  am." 

227 


THE    STAGE    DOOR 

"Oh,  it's  all  right  with  you,"  Carroll  said.  "You 
don't  really  belong  to  'the  troupe.'  You  can  leave 
whenever  you  want  to  and  go  back  to  the  white 
lights  of  Broadway.  Bless  them !" 

And  then  Adler  came  to  our  table  and  told  Carroll 
and  Miss  Ryan  to  hurry  over  to  the  theatre  for  re- 
hearsal, and  I  was  left  alone  again  to  wonder  if  I  was 
always  to  be  an  outsider. 

Half-past  eight  found  me  seated  alone  in  the 
upper  stage  box  at  the  first  performance  of  "The 
Princess  Popinjay"  and  the  first  appearance  as  a 
star  of  Miss  Alice  Abercrombie.  From  the  rise  of  the 
first  curtain  the  opera  went  with  a  swing  and  a  dash 
that  was  extraordinary.  Wainwright  makes  few 
mistakes,  and  this  time  apparently  he  had  left  no 
loop-hole  for  failure  to  creep  in.  In  a  misty  sort  of 
way  I  can  remember  Altha  Ryan  and  Baker  singing 
many  verses  of  a  duet,  and  Carroll  looking  very  well 
in  his  white  duck  suit  and  a  sword  clashing  at  his 
side.  Many  of  the  girls,  too,  whom  I  had  formerly 
known  on  the  train  in  shirtwaists  and  short  skirts, 
I  recognized  now  as  wonderfully  beautiful  daughters 
of  a  travelling  English  millionaire  or  in  the  black 


THE    KIDNAPPERS 

tight-fitting  dresses  of  vendeuses  in  a  Paris  mil- 
linery shop. 

But  what  I  saw  distinctly,  and  it  was  what  every 
one  else  in  that  crowded  audience  recognized,  was 
the  sweeping  success  of  Alice  Abercrombie.  She,  too, 
had  allowed  for  no  chance  of  failure.  To  that  per- 
formance she  had  brought  the  result  of  years  of  hard 
work  and  the  training  of  the  best  masters.  To  one  end 
she  had  toiled  unceasingly,  breaking  down  the  bar- 
riers as  she  met  them,  and  when  the  great  test  came 
she  rose  to  it  and  carried  everything  before  her.  It 
was  at  the  end  of  the  second  act  that  she  achieved  her 
greatest  tirumph.  Again  and  again  she  was  called 
before  the  curtain,  until  it  seemed  there  would  be 
no  end  to  it.  I  looked  down  from  my  box  at  the  new 
star,  and  once,  I  think,  she  looked  up  at  me;  but  I 
remember  that  everything  was  blurred  by  the  direct 
rays  of  the  footlights.  I  turned  and  stared  at  the 
mass  of  faces  below  me,  and  my  one  thought  was  of 
myself — that  for  two  days  this  girl  had  been  quite 
alone — alone  with  me,  with  me! 

And  then  it  seemed  as  if  I  could  stand  the  noise 
no  longer,  and  so  I  hurried  down  the  staircase  that 


THE    STAGE    DOOR 

led  from  my  box  to  the  little  door  that  opened  on  to 
the  stage.  I  pushed  my  way  through  a  crowd  of  ex- 
cited, chattering  chorus  girls  and  ran  up  an  iron 
staircase  that  led  to  the  star's  dressing-room.  Just 
outside  of  this  room  there  was  a  small -platform  that 
extended  to  the  proscenium  arch  and  was  used  by 
the  man  who  had  charge  of  the  colored  lights.  The 
platform  was  vacant  for  the  moment,  and  so  I  walked 
out  on  it  and  peered  over  the  railing,  that  I  might 
see  Miss  Abercrombie  go  before  the  curtain  again. 

And  then  directly  back  of  me  I  heard  her  voice. 
She  and  Baker  were  standing  on  the  landing  in  front 
of  her  dressing-room,  and  while  I  could  see  them 
they  did  not  notice  me,  because  there  were  several 
bunchlight  stands  between  us.  Apparently  she  had 
stopped  him  on  his  way  to  his  room  on  the  floor 
above. 

"You'd  better  go  back,  little  one,"  I  heard  him 
say,  and  he  nodded  toward  the  audience.  "They 
seem  to  want  you  out  there  bad.  It  sounds  good  for 
several  calls  yet." 

And  it  really  sounded  to  me  as  if  the  enthusiasm 
of  the  audience  was  greater  than  it  had  been  at  any 
230 


THE    KIDNAPPERS 

time.  For  a  moment  she  stood  there  flushed  and 
panting,  her  big  eyes  all  afire  with  the  excitement  of 
her  triumph.  After  all,  this  was  the  moment  of  her 
life,  for  which  she  had  waited  and  planned  so  long. 
There  would  be  other  successes  and  other  triumphs; 
but  there  could  be  only  one  first  triumph. 

"You'd  better  take  the  call,"  Baker  urged,  and 
started  on  toward  his  own  room ;  but  the  girl  reached 
out  her  white  arm  and,  taking  him  by  the  shoulder, 
swung  him  back  so  that  he  faced  her  again. 

"What  do  I  care  about  their  noise?  What  do  I 
care  about  them?"  she  gasped.  "What  I  want  to 
know  is  if  you  love  me — me,  do  you  understand, 
and  not  that  Altha  Ryan  girl  ? " 

I  do  not  know  what  Baker  said  or  did,  because  the 
hundreds  of  electric  lights  all  about  the  stage  seemed 
to  flare  up  suddenly,  and  I  steadied  myself  by 
holding  tight  to  the  iron  railing  at  my  side,  and 
looked  away  from  them  and  down  on  the  cleared 
stage. 

A  few  minutes  later  I  knocked  at  her  door,  and 
she  told  me  that  I  might  come  in.  She  was  standing 
in  front  of  her  mirror,  her  knuckles  resting  on  the 
231 


THE    STAGE    DOOR 

dressing-table  in  front  of  her.  As  I  spoke  she  did  not 
take  her  eyes  from  those  in  the  looking-glass. 

"I've  come  to  say  good-by,"  I  said;  "I  have  de- 
cided to  go  back  to  New  York.  Quite  unintentionally 
I  heard  you  talking  just  now  to  Baker.  When  you 
said  that  I  didn't  belong — that  I  was  only  an  out- 
sider— I  could  not  understand  exactly.  That  was 
probably  because  I  didn't  want  to;  but  I  do  now. 
I  am  leaving  you  with  your  own  people.  Good-by." 

The  girl  inclined  her  head  very  slightly,  and  I  left 
her  just  as  I  had  found  her,  still  looking  into  the 
mirror. 

In  a  drawer  of  my  desk  at  home  there  is  a  little 
folder,  and  on  the  cover  it  says,  "  Tour  of  the  Prin- 
cess Popinjay  Company,"  and  inside  there  is  a  list 
of  towns  where  the  company  plays  and  the  dates  on 
which  it  appears  in  each  town.  Very  often  during  the 
best  hour  of  the  twenty-four,  which  I  think  is  be- 
tween six  and  seven  o'clock  in  the  evening,  I  take  out 
this  card  and  find  out  just  where  "The  Princess  Pop- 
injay" is  that,  night.  I  can  imagine  the  chorus  girls 
walking  arm  in  arm  through  the  streets  of  the  little 
232 


THE    KIDNAPPERS 

town,  unobserving  but  much  observed  as  members  of 
"the  troupe";  down  in  the  hotel  office  Ben  Adler  is 
talking  to  the  clerk;  and  the  actors  are  sitting  with 
their  chairs  tilted  against  the  wall;  and  Baker  and 
Carroll  and  Altha  Ryan  and  Alice  Abercrombie  have 
just  come  in  for  dinner  after  a  drive  or  a  stroll 
through  the  town.  And  later  I  know  they  will  all  put 
on  their  fine  plumage  and  go  through  the  play,  not 
even  knowing  the  name  of  the  town  so  well  prob- 
ably as  I  do ;  but  they  will  have  their  jokes  and  their 
gossip  and  their  laughter  and  their  hard-luck  stories 
behind  the  scenes  and  in  the  dressing-rooms,  and 
they  will  be  happy  in  their  own  way  and  in  their  own 
world. 


233 


THE   FLAWLESS   EMERALD 


THE    FLAWLESS    EMERALD 

fVlTH  the  exception  of  the  adventure  I  am  now 
about  to  relate,  my  life  has  been  conventional,  dull, 
and  prosaic.  This,  I  am  bound  to  state,  has  been  no 
fault  of  my  own,  for  my  spirit  is  really  a  most  ad- 
venturous one,  and  I  am  sure  that  had  my  lot  been 
that  of  a  gentleman  of  leisure,  instead  of  a  clerk  in  a 
cotton  house,  I  should  have  had  such  experiences  as 
we  are  led  to  believe  were  common  a  hundred  years 
ago.  Instead  of  dashing  about  the  world,  accom- 
panied by  a  few  kindred  spirits,  in  a  rakish  black 
craft  and  exploring  nooks  and  crannies  of  the  globe 
yet  untouched  by  the  foot  of  the  white  man,  it  has 
been  my  fate  to  divide  my  life  in  New  York  between 
our  office  down  town,  and  comfortable  though  modest 
rooms  in  a  bachelor  apartment-house  on  West 
Twenty-sixth  Street.  My  movements  have  also  been 
somewhat  confined  by  a  hard  business  sense  which  I 
237 


THE    STAGE    DOOR 

must  have  derived  from  my  Puritan  ancestors — a 
sense  which  has  given  me  the  reputation  of  a  valued 
employee,  and  has  inspired  a  consistent  practice  of 
not  spending  more  than  two-thirds  of  my  income.  As 
a  result,  I  have  never  been  able  to  travel  very  far 
afield  for  my  romance,  and  have  had  to  content  my- 
self with  such  adventure  as  I  found  in  books  and  on 
the  stage. 

I  know  my  New  York  thoroughly,  for  I  have  gone 
over  every  quarter  of  it  time  and  again,  always  by 
myself,  and  usually  at  night,  but  it  is  the  land  of  the 
money-grubber,  not  of  romance — no  gloved  hand 
has  ever  waved  to  me  from  a  passing  brougham  and 
no  fair  face  has  yet  appeared  at  a  window  of  a  de- 
serted house.  The  few  experiences  I  have  had  on  my 
nocturnal  wanderings  have  always  resulted  in  my 
hasty  flight  in  order  to  avoid  a  street  brawl  or  some 
equally  vulgar  proceeding.  And  so,  with  a  feeling  of 
real  regret,  I  have  always  been  forced  to  return  to  my 
novel  at  home  in  my  little  study  or  go  back  to  my 
front  seat  at  the  theatre  and  find  my  adventures 
among  the  people  of  stage-land. 

As  in  all  other  cotton  houses,  our  work  for  the 
238 


THE    FLAWLESS    EMERALD 

year  is  most  unevenly  divided — for  six  months  we 
toil  ceaselessly  and  for  the  remainder  of  the  time  we 
have  really  little  or  nothing  to  do.  Many  of  our  force 
are  employed  only  for  the  busy  season.  I,  with  sev- 
eral others,  am  engaged  for  the  whole  twelve  months, 
but  during  the  slack  season  our  firm  has  gladly  per- 
mitted us  to  take  long  vacations  on  half-pay. 

The  work  during  the  season  just  ended  had  been 
particularly  severe,  and  I  had  decided  that  I  would, 
for  the  first  time  during  the  ten  years  with  which  I 
had  been  connected  with  the  house,  treat  myself  to 
a  long  vacation.  I  had  determined  in  a  general  way 
that  I  should  go  abroad,  but  had  arranged  nothing 
definitely  farther  than  that  I  should  spend  the  first 
days  of  my  holiday  in  absolute  idleness  in  the  city 
where  I  had  recently  worked  so  hard.  I  had  com- 
pleted all  the  pending  business  at  the  office,  and  was 
even  in  the  act  of  shutting  down  my  roller-top  desk 
with  a  feeling  of  genuine  relief,  when  Mr.  Arthur 
Kellard  walked  into  my  office. 

Mr.  Kellard  was  an  occasional  customer  of  the 
house,  and  frequently  came  in  to  consult  me  in  re- 
gard to  his  account.  I  knew  little  of  him  beyond  the 
239 


THE    STAGE    DOOR 

facts  that  he  had  an  office  at  120  Broadway,  was  sup- 
posed to  have  large  interests  in  some  Mexican  mines, 
and  to  all  appearances,  was  a  gentleman  forty  years 
of  age  and  of  polite  address.  On  the  occasion  of  which 
I  speak  he  asked  me  about  his  account,  and,  having 
obtained  the  required  information,  he  entered  into  a 
conversation  on  general  topics  with  me.  I  told  him  of 
my  intended  vacation  and  that  I  was  even  then  about 
to  take  my  leave  of  the  office.  To  this  he  suggested 
that  we  should  walk  uptown  together  and  begin  my 
holiday  by  taking  a  drink  with  him  at  his  club.  I 
gladly  assented,  and  he  interested  me  greatly  on  our 
way  uptown  by  suggesting  various  tours  I  might  take 
as  the  best  way  of  spending  my  vacation. 

His  club,  while  not  of  the  very  first  social  impor- 
tance, like  the  Union  or  Knickerbocker,  had  a  very 
good  address  on  Fifth  Avenue,  and  I  was  soon  most 
comfortably  ensconced  in  a  large  leather  chair  with 
a  glass  of  Scotch,  a  good  cigar,  and  my  new  friend 
across  the  little  table  telling  me  of  the  possibilities  of 
European  travel.  When  we  entered  the  room  there 
were  but  two  other  members  present.  They  were  sit- 
ting at  the  next  window  to  ours  and  looking  with  a 
240 


THE    FLAWLESS    EMERALD 

languid  interest  at  the  passing  show  on  the  Avenue. 
Mr.  Kellard  evidently  was  not  acquainted  with  them, 
as  he  did  not  recognize  them  either  when  entering 
the  room  or  afterward.  We  sat  together  for  perhaps 
half  an  hour,  and  then  my  host  begged  me  to  excuse 
him,  as  he  had  an  engagement  uptown,  but  suggested 
that  I  should  remain  where  I  was  or  make  myself  at 
home  wherever  I  chose  in  the  club.  I  readily  acceded 
to  this  suggestion,  as  I  was  not  a  member  of  any  club, 
and  thoroughly  enjoyed  the  novelty  of  the  situa- 
tion. 

I  had  been  sitting  at  the  window  alone  for  some 
minutes,  thinking  only  of  the  passers-by  and  the  long 
lines  of  fine  carriages  with  their  beautifully  dressed 
owners,  and  rather  hoping  that  some  of  my  acquaint- 
ances might  see  me  in  the  club  window,  when  my 
attention  was  arrested  by  a  remark  made  by  one  of 
the  two  men  at  the  neighboring  window.  A  young  and 
very  pretty  girl  had  just  driven  by  in  a  runabout.  I 
had  myself  noticed  her,  not  only  on  account  of  her 
beauty,  but  because  of  the  extreme  smartness  of  the 
vehicle  and  the  livery  of  the  little  tiger  sitting  beside 
her. 

241 


THE    STAGE    DOOR 

"Nice  girl,"  said  one  of  the  men;  "but  very  eccen- 
tric, very." 

From  where  I  was  sitting  I  could  easily  hear  their 
conversation  and,  quite  unobserved,  get  a  good  look 
at  them.  The  man  who  spoke  was  the  elder  of  the 
two.  He  was  perhaps  forty  years  of  age,  extremely 
well  groomed,  and  his  most  distinctive  feature  was 
a  blonde  moustache  turned  up  at  the  ends  very  much 
in  the  style  affected  by  the  Emperor  William.  His 
friend,  who  looked  to  be  about  thirty  years  of  age, 
had  a  clean-shaven  face,  and,  like  the  other  man,  had 
the  appearance  and  manner  of  a  true  cosmopolite. 

"I  have  never  met  her,"  answered  the  younger 
man,  "but  she  always  looks  most  attractive  and 
quite  unlike  other  actresses.  For  instance,  she  doesn't 
crown  herself  with  white  plumes  and  loll  back  in  a 
victoria.  Did  you  notice  that  dress  she  had  on  when 
she  passed  just  now  ?  Her  whole  appearance  was  that 
of  a  very  smart  girl  in  society,  and  her  trap  was  just 
as  well  turned  out  as  herself.  I  have  often  thought  I 
should  like  to  meet  her." 

"I  wish  we  could  all  have  supper  together  some 
night  after  the  performance,"  said  the  man  with  the 
242 


THE    FLAWLESS    EMERALD 

blonde  moustache,  "but  she  is  most  difficult.  That  is 
one  of  her  eccentricities.  Ada  Caldara  never  makes 
engagements.  She  is  quite  willing  to  have  you  meet 
her  at  the  stage  door,  but  she  always  reserves  the 
privilege  of  refusing  your  invitation  at  the  last  mo- 
ment and  going  away  with  some  other  friend  or  back 
home  for  a  quiet  supper  with  her  mother.  I  have  seen 
half  a  dozen  men  waiting  for  her,  and  she  has  left 
them  all  standing  on  the  sidewalk  looking  like  a  lot 
of  fools,  and  then  driven  off  in  a  hansom  with  her 
maid.  It's  wonderful  how  she  holds  her  friends." 

"I  saw  her  last  spring  when  she  was  playing  in 
London  at  the  Shaftesbury,"  said  the  younger  man. 
"She  was  at  a  supper  young  Neimeyer  gave  her  at 
The  Princess.  She  struck  me  then  as  being  excep- 
tionally good-looking." 

"Do  you  know  Neimeyer?"  answered  the  older 
man.  "It  was  he  who  gave  her  the  flawless  emerald." 

"A  flawless  emerald?  I  didn't  know  there  was 
such  a  thing,"  said  the  young  man. 

"They  are  very  rare,"  continued  the  man  with  the 
blonde  moustache;  "many  jewellers  who  have  been 
in  the  business  all  their  lives  have  never  seen  one, 
243 


THE    STAGE    DOOR 

and,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  it  is  the  quickest  test  to  tell  a 
real  stone  from  one  of  the  very  good  imitations  they 
make  nowadays — the  imitations  are  always  flawless. 
Didn't  you  ever  hear  of  the  trouble  with  the  Nei- 
meyers  about  the  stone  ?  It's  a  very  good  story,  but 
was  hushed  up  over  there  by  young  Neimeyer's 
friends." 

In  answer  the  younger  man  shook  his  head.  His 
friend  turned  to  look  at  me,  but  I  anticipated  him 
and  continued  to  look  out  of  the  window  as  if  I  were 
quite  unconscious  of  their  presence.  The  older  man 
took  out  his  cigarette-case,  lighted  a  cigarette,  and 
continued: 

"About  the  time  young  Neimeyer  was  so  devoted 
to  this  girl  a  very  distinguished  personage  arrived  in 
London  with  one  of  the  most  remarkable  collections 
of  jewels  in  the  world." 

"An  Indian  prince?"  asked  the  younger  man. 

"No,  better  than  that,"  said  his  friend.  "He  was  a 
royal  personage;  a  ruler  of  a  small  kingdom  all  of  his 
own.  But  like  a  good  many  modern  rulers  he  was 
sadly  impoverished,  and  he  came  to  sell  some  of  his 
family  jewels  so  that  he  might  straighten  out  his  af- 
244 


THE    FLAWLESS    EMERALD 

fairs  at  home.  But  it  seemed  he  had  a  most  absurd 
idea  of  their  value,  and  demanded  such  exorbitant 
prices  that  his  mission  failed  utterly.  To  make  things 
worse,  he  lost  a  great  deal  of  money  gambling  at  one 
of  the  fashionable  clubs  in  London,  and  tried  to  make 
it  up  at  the  races,  and  met  with  the  usual  result.  In  a 
very  short  time  he  found  himself  deeply  in  debt  to  his 
sponsors  at  the  club  and  the  book-makers  as  well.  In 
his  predicament  he  turned  to  old  man  Neimeyer,  who 
you  probably  know  carries  on  his  business  of  a  dealer 
in  antiquities  only  as  a  blind,  for  since  Sam  Lewis 
died  he  is  really  the  greatest  usurer  in  England.  He 
will  loan  money  on  anything  from  a  ducal  estate  to 
a  trained  elephant — that  is,  as  long  as  he  gets  his 
fifty  per  cent,  commission.  The  most  valuable  single 
gem  the  potentate  had  in  his  collection  was  a  flawless 
emerald,  probably  the  best  of  its  kind  in  the  world, 
and  it  was  this  he  took  to  Neimeyer.  To  make  a  long 
story  short,  he  loaned  the  gem  to  the  money-lender 
as  security,  got  enough  ready  cash  to  pay  his  debts 
and  returned  to  his  own  country  to  arrange  with  his 
Minister  of  Finance  to  pile  on  taxes  sufficient  to 
eventually  get  his  flawless  emerald  out  of  pawn.  He 
245 


THE    STAGE    DOOR 

had  until  the  end  of  a  year,  which  was  the  time  for 
which  it  had  been  loaned  to  Neimeyer. 

"This  is  where  Miss  Caldara  got  into  the  game. 
Young  Jacob  Neimeyer  had  been  showing  the  girl 
all  kinds  of  attentions,  and  I  imagine  the  affair  had 
put  him  in  a  rather  bad  way  financially.  Whether  it 
was  his  lack  of  funds  or  just  sheer  madness  over  his 
devotion  to  her,  he  went  to  his  father's  safe  one  night, 
took  out  the  flawless  emerald,  and  carried  it  with  the 
tale  of  its  great  value  to  the  lady  he  loved  so  well  and 
unwisely.  A  few  days  later  the  old  man  wanted  to 
show  the  gem  to  a  friend,  and,  of  course,  discovered 
the  loss.  As  there  were  only  two  or  three  people  who 
knew  about  the  jewel  and  who  had  the  combination 
of  the  safe,  the  theft  was  very  soon  fixed  on  the  son, 
and  the  real  trouble  began.  The  boy — for  that's  what 
he  really  is — protested  that  he  had  only  loaned  the 
jewel  to  Miss  Caldara,  but  the  lady  thought  differ- 
ently. She  claimed  that  it  was  a  gift.  Neimeyer  called 
in  his  lawyers,  and  even  Scotland  Yard  was  appealed 
to,  and  many  and  strong  were  the  arguments  brought 
to  bear  on  the  young  actress.  They  threatened  to 
arrest  her  as  the  receiver  of  stolen  goods,  but  she  very 
246 


THE    FLAWLESS    EMERALD 

naturally  contended  that  her  arrest  could  only  follow 
that  of  the  thief,  and  Neimeyer,  of  course,  was  anx- 
ious to  keep  his  son  out  of  jail  as  well  as  to  avoid  the 
scandal  which  would  follow  the  expose  of  his  trans- 
action with  the  potentate.  There  were  many  meetings 
and  stormy  interviews  between  all  the  parties  con- 
cerned, but  the  upshot  of  it  all  was  that  Miss  Caldara 
agreed  to  return  the  jewel  within  the  year  from  the 
day  it  was  pawned,  so  that  it  should  be  in  Neimeyer 's 
safe  by  the  time  the  royal  personage  returned  to 
claim  his  own.  In  the  meantime,  she  was  to  have  the 
privilege  of  wearing  it  when  and  how  she  liked,  but, 
as  a  matter  of  fact,  few  even  of  her  intimate  friends 
have  any  idea  of  its  value,  as  the  Neimeyers  natu- 
rally never  speak  of  the  incident,  and  she  is  not  par- 
ticularly anxious  to  tell  a  story  which  is  but  little  to 
her  credit." 

"Does  she  often  wear  it  ?"  interrupted  the  younger 
man. 

"Very  seldom,"  answered  his  friend.  "In  fact,  I 

have  never  seen  her  use  it  on  the  stage.  I  always 

wanted  to  see  it  'from  the  front,'  however,  and  she 

promised  me  at  supper  last  evening  that  she  would 

247 


THE    STAGE    DOOR 

positively  wear  it  to-night.  Why  don't  you  come  to 
the  theatre  with  me  ?  We  can  see  how  the  jewel  looks 
over  the  footlights,  and  if  she  will  take  supper  after- 
ward we  can  examine  it  at  close  range.  It  is  really 
worth  while — quite  a  historic  gem." 

"I'm  sorry,"  replied  the  younger  man,  "but  I'm 
going  to  a  dinner  dance  and  you  know  what  that 
means.  I'll  probably  not  get  away  before  one  or  pos- 
sibly two  o'clock.  It's  too  bad,  for  I  should  really  like 
to  see  the  flawless  emerald." 

"Well,  some  other  time,  then,"  said  the  older  man, 
and  the  two  friends,  as  if  by  mutual  consent,  finished 
their  drinks  and  sauntered  out  of  the  room. 

I  must  admit  that  I  had  listened  to  the  story  of  the 
flawless  emerald  with  great  interest.  I  knew  nothing 
of  gems  and  very  little  of  the  heroine  of  the  tale,  but 
I  had  seen  her  many  times  on  the  stage  at  the  Ca- 
sino, and  had  always  admired  her  very  greatly  for  her 
extreme  beauty  and  an  apparently  indolent  grace 
which  was  really  most  attractive.  I  was  glad  to  learn 
something  of  her,  and  to  listen  to  a  story  concerning 
the  intimate  doings  of  such  people  as  the  poor  poten- 
tate and  the  famous  money-lender — people  who  were 
248 


THE    FLAWLESS    EMERALD 

part  of  a  life  of  which  I  had  seen  nothing  and  knew 
but  little.  My  curiosity  to  see  the  wonderful  emerald 
was  indeed  very  great,  and  nothing  would  have  kept 
me  away  from  the  theatre  that  night.  As  it  was,  I  had 
no  engagement,  and  immediately  set  out  for  the  Wal- 
dorf, where  I  bought  a  front  seat  for  that  night's 
performance. 

I  suppose  I  should  have  blamed  Miss  Caldara  for 
her  part  in  the  proceedings,  but  when  she  made  her 
appearance  I  could  not  find  it  in  my  heart  to  do  so. 
She  was  quite  the  loveliest  person  to  look  at  on  the 
stage  and  seemed  to  me  worthy  to  wear  any  gem 
however  rare  and  valuable.  Indeed,  when  she  smiled 
pleasantly  at  a  gentleman  sitting  alone  in  a  stage  box, 
and  whom  I  at  once  recognized  as  the  one  who  had 
told  the  story  of  the  emerald  that  afternoon  at  the 
club,  I  really  envied  him  greatly.  I  had  several  times 
read  of  the  wonderful  collection  of  jewels  Miss  Cal- 
dara was  supposed  to  possess,  and  had  on  several 
previous  visits  to  the  same  play  noticed  some  re- 
markable diamonds  she  wore,  but  on  this  particular 
night,  during  the  first  two  acts,  she  used  no  jewels  of 
any  description,  and  I  almost  gave  up  hope  of  seeing 
249 


THE    STAGE    DOOR 

the  famous  flawless  emerald.  It  was  at  the  very  last 
of  the  third  act,  when  Miss  Caldara  appeared  in  a 
white  evening  dress,  that  I  caught  my  first  glimpse  of 
the  jewel  which  had  already  caused  so  much  trouble. 
She  wore  it  at  the  edge  of  her  corsage,  and  its  size 
alone,  even  had  it  not  been  a  stone  of  great  bril- 
liancy, would  have  at  once  attracted  the  attention  of 
the  audience.  The  emerald  appeared  to  be  about  an 
inch  square  and  needed  no  other  jewels  to  set  off  its 
great  beauty — indeed,  even  the  mounting  was  invisi- 
ble from  my  seat  in  the  orchestra.  It  seemed  as  if 
every  one  about  me  began  discussing  the  stone  at 
once.  The  lady  sitting  next  to  me  contended  that  it 
was  altogether  too  large  to  be  genuine,  but  her 
escort  laughed  and  said  something  about  Miss  Cal- 
dara's  jewels  being  finer  than  any  ever  worn  in  a  box 
at  the  Metropolitan  Opera  House. 

I  wished  that  I  might  tell  them  all  I  knew,  and  it 
seemed  strange  that  in  all  that  audience  only  the  man 
sitting  alone  in  the  box  and  I  understood  how  valu- 
able the  stone  really  was.  But,  of  course,  I  said 
nothing,  and  in  a  few  moments  the  final  curtain  fell 
and  Miss  Caldara  and  her  emerald  were  shut  off 
250 


THE    FLAWLESS    EMERALD 

from  our  view.  It  so  happened  that  I  had  never 
counted  an  actor  or  an  actress  among  my  friends, 
and  so  I  had  never  had  any  occasion  to  visit  the  stage 
door  of  a  theatre,  but  nothing  could  have  tempted 
me  away  from  the  stage  door  of  the  Casino  on  this 
particular  night.  I  wanted  to  see  Miss  Caldara  again, 
and,  above  all,  I  wanted  to  see  what  became  of  the 
admirers  who  had  come  to  meet  her.  The  whole  idea 
struck  me  as  most  unique  and  amusing.  I  followed 
the  audience  out  of  the  theatre,  and  slowly  walked 
around  the  corner  and  up  Thirty-ninth  Street  toward 
Sixth  Avenue.  There  was  a  long  line  of  hansoms, 
broughams,  and  automobiles  stretching  for  almost  an 
entire  block,  and  quite  a  number  of  people  had  al- 
ready collected  about  the  stage  entrance.  It  was 
rather  dark,  but  I  could  easily  see  that  the  crowd 
was  made  up  of  many  classes  of  society.  There  were 
stage-hands  in  their  working  clothes,  and  very  smart- 
looking  young  men  in  evening  dress,  and  many  others 
of  all  conditions  waiting  for  friends,  or  perhaps,  like 
myself,  attracted  there  purely  from  a  spirit  of  curi- 
osity. I  watched  with  much  interest  the  almost  con- 
tinuous line  of  men  and  women  who  were  in  some 
251 


THE    STAGE    DOOR 

way  connected  with  the  theatre  as  they  came  through 
the  little  door  leading  to  the  mysterious  realms  of 
stage-land.  Many  of  the  girls  hurried  away  singly  or 
in  little  groups,  while  others  joined  their  friends  and 
dashed  away  in  the  hansoms  or  automobiles,  no 
doubt  to  gay  suppers  that  awaited  them.  The  scene 
was  full  of  human  interest  to  me,  and  although  I  was 
considerably  jostled  and  knocked  about  by  the  crowd 
around  the  door,  the  half-hour  which  passed  before 
Miss  Caldara  finally  appeared  slipped  by  most 
pleasantly. 

It  occurred  to  me,  however,  as  a  curious  fact,  that 
nowhere  in  the  crowd  could  I  see  the  man  who  had 
told  the  story  of  the  emerald,  and  who  had  occupied 
the  box,  while,  on  the  other  hand,  I  was  sure  that  I 
had  recognized  his  friend  who  had  that  afternoon 
begged  off  from  going  to  the  theatre  on  account  of 
another  engagement.  However,  as  the  incident  could 
be  accounted  for  in  many  ways,  and  as  it  was  none  of 
my  affair  anyhow,  I  gave  it  but  a  passing  thought. 

The  actress  whom  I  had  waited  to  see  at  last  made 
her  appearance.  There  was  no  question  as  to  her 
identity,  and  she  looked  quite  as  beautiful  to  me  as 
252 


The  actress  at  last  made  her  appearance. 


THE    FLAWLESS    EMERALD 

she  had  on  the  stage.  About  her  shoulders  she  wore 
a  long  opera  cloak  which  only  partially  concealed 
a  dress  such  as  any  lady  might  wear  to  an  evening 
party.  Accompanied  by  her  maid  and  looking  neither 
to  the  right  nor  to  the  left,  she  brushed  her  way 
through  the  crowd  and  started  toward  Sixth  Avenue, 
in  which  direction  her  carriage  was  evidently  await- 
ing her.  She  had  perhaps  gone  some  twenty  feet  be- 
yond the  crowd  about  the  door  when  she  uttered 
a  faint  cry  and  turned  suddenly  to  her  maid.  After 
a  few  hasty  words  the  two  women  started  back 
toward  the  theatre.  Miss  Caldara  reentered  the  stage 
door,  and  the  maid  ran  to  the  corner  and  started  an 
earnest  conversation  with  a  policeman.  The  actress 
returned  almost  immediately  with  the  stage-door 
man,  and  began  looking  about  on  the  ground  as  if  for 
some  lost  article.  They  were  joined  by  the  police 
officer  and  the  maid,  and  all  four  commenced  to  look 
over  the  sidewalk.  The  officer  at  first  glanced  care- 
fully over  the  crowd.  Some  of  the  men  returned  his 
stare  impudently,  while  others  turned  their  heads 
and  slowly  walked  away.  In  a  few  moments  every 
one  who  remained  knew  that  a  valuable  jewel  had 
253 


THE    STAGE    DOOR 

been  lost  by  Miss  Caldara  on  her  way  from  the  stage 
door  to  her  carriage,  and  the  whole  crowd  of  men 
joined  in  the  search  of  the  sidewalk,  at  the  same  time 
eying  each  other  with  evident  suspicion. 

I,  too,  joined  in  the  search,  but  I  knew  that  it  was 
quite  futile;  for  the  flawless  emerald  was  in  my 
overcoat  pocket. 

In  the  great  excitement  of  the  moment  I  could  not 
positively  state  just  when  it  got  there,  but  it  was 
about  the  time  that  Miss  Caldara  uttered  the  faint 
scream  and  turned  back  to  the  theatre.  I  was  com- 
pletely surrounded  at  the  moment,  but  I  distinctly 
felt  something  suddenly  forced  into  my  outside 
pocket.  I  turned  my  head,  but  the  men  standing 
back  of  me  were  all  looking  at  the  beautiful  actress, 
and  it  was  impossible  to  distinguish  which  of  several 
men  was  in  the  best  position  to  have  transferred  his 
plunder  to  me.  The  situation  was  at  once  perfectly 
apparent:  the  thief  had  snatched  the  case  from  Miss 
Caldara  and  had  passed  it  on  to  me  instead  of  his 
confederate.  I  was  sure  that  the  latter  had  sneaked 
away  with  some  of  the  other  men,  believing  that  his 
pal  had  decided  to  hold  on  to  the  jewel,  while  the 
254 


THE    FLAWLESS    EMERALD 

thief,  under  the  impression  that  he  had  successfully 
carried  out  the  transfer,  was  even  then  assisting  in 
the  search.  An  enormous  crowd  gathered  almost 
immediately,  and  the  sidewalk  became  black  with 
people. 

"I  should  like  to  search  every  one  of  youse," 
growled  the  police  officer;  but  the  crowd  only  laughed 
and  went  on  lighting  matches  and  using  them  as 
torches  as  they  continued  to  scan  the  pavement. 

For  one  brief  moment  I  thought  of  giving  up  the 
emerald,  but  then  I  considered  that  I  was  without 
a  single  friend  in  the  crowd,  and  whatever  Miss 
Caldara  might  think,  my  action  would  certainly  be 
regarded  as  most  suspicious  by  the  mob,  which  I 
knew  would  like  nothing  better  than  to  see  me  hur- 
ried off  to  the  nearest  police  station.  There  would  be 
plenty  of  time  later  to  make  the  necessary  restitution, 
and  I  had  sufficient  wit  to  know  that  hasty  action 
in  such  crises  is  always  conducive  to  error.  The  per- 
spiration came  out  on  my  forehead  in  large  drops, 
and  actually  ran  down  my  face,  but  I  held  my  head 
low  and  went  on  with  the  search,  gradually,  how- 
ever, working  myself  away  from  the  point  where  the 
255 


THE    STAGE    DOOR 

crowd  was  the  greatest.  The  actress,  I  must  admit, 
met  the  difficulty  as  a  true  lady  should,  and  did  little 
more  than  direct  the  search  with  decision  and  with- 
out any  vulgar  display  of  emotion.  I  cannot  say  as 
much  for  the  maid,  who  dived  about  under  every- 
body's legs  looking  for  the  jewel-case,  in  the  mean- 
while weeping  and  bewailing  the  great  loss  of  her 
mistress. 

What  eventually  occurred  and  how  the  crowd  was 
finally  dispersed,  I  do  not  know;  for  as  soon  as  I  had 
worked  myself  to  the  outer  edge  of  the  mob,  I  saun- 
tered slowly  down  Thirty-ninth  Street  and  turned 
into  the  crowded  sidewalks  of  Broadway.  All  my  life 
I  had  been  looking  for  adventure,  and  when  at  last 
it  came  I  cannot  say  that  I  found  very  much  pleasure 
in  it — indeed,  my  only  feeling  was  worse  than  that  of 
the  culprit  who  is  lucky  enough  to  have  escaped  with 
his  plunder.  I  walked  along  the  street  for  several 
blocks  in  a  semi-dazed  condition,  my  hand  in  my 
pocket  closely  grasping  the  jewel-case.  But  the  cool 
night  air  finally  brought  me  to  my  senses,  and  I  de- 
cided that  I  must  go  home  and,  in  the  quiet  of  my 
own  apartment,  plan  for  future  action. 
256 


THE    FLAWLESS    EMERALD 

The  apartment  which  I  occupied  was  on  the  second 
floor  and  ran  the  entire  length  of  the  building,  which 
was  formerly  a  private  residence,  but  had  been  re- 
cently changed  to  a  combination  business  and  apart- 
ment-house. The  basement  and  lower  floor  were  used 
as  shops,  and  there  was  but  one  apartment  above  my 
own.  As  the  latter  was  not  rented  at  the  time,  and  as 
there  was  no  elevator  and  the  caretaker  only  came 
in  during  the  day,  I  was  quite  alone  in  the  building 
after  the  shops  had  been  closed  for  the  night.  I  did 
not  care  particularly  for  the  arrangement,  but  I  had 
the  satisfaction  of  knowing  that  it  was  not  the  kind 
of  house  which  a  burglar  would  care  to  take  the  risk 
of  entering,  as  the  .shops  dealt  in  only  the  cheapest 
kind  of  goods  and  my  own  apartment  was  simplicity 
itself.  On  the  present  occasion,  however,  I  must  con- 
fess to  a  feeling  of  very  great  pleasure  as  I  opened  the 
door  into  my  little  sitting-room.  Here,  at  least,  I  was 
safe  with  my  treasure  and  free  to  consider  how  best 
to  return  it  to  its  owner.  I  took  off  my  hat  and  over- 
coat and  put  the  precious  case,  which  I  knew  must 
contain  the  emerald,  on  my  writing  desk.  I  lighted 
my  pipe,  and,  drawing  up  a  chair,  opened  the  jewel- 
257 


THE    STAGE    DOOR 

case.  The  great  green  stone  lay  on  a  piece  of  white 
velvet — from  its  every  facet  it  shone  and  sparkled 
splendidly  even  in  the  dull  yellow  light  of  my  room. 
I  took  it  out  of  the  case  and  held  it  up  before  the  gas- 
jet — it  was  as  clear  as  crystal,  not  the  trace  of  a  flaw 
anywhere.  And  then  I  heard  the  door  of  the  bed- 
room which  was  back  of  me  creak  on  its  hinges,  and 
I  knew  that  I  was  not  alone. 

My  first  instinct  was  to  cry  aloud  for  help,  but  the 
childish  fear  which  possessed  my  senses  passed  as 
quickly  as  it  had  overtaken  me,  and  I  laid  the  jewel 
on  the  desk  in  front  of  me.  There  was  no  possible 
escape:  the  windows  were  closed  and  heavily  cur- 
tained, and  the  spring  lock  of  the  door  had  snapped 
behind  me  when  I  entered.  My  mind  seemed  to  be 
perfectly  clear,  but  as  I  listened  to  the  quiet  footfalls 
of  some  one  approaching  toward  the  back  of  my 
chair,  I  was  quite  conscious  that  my  heart  was  not 
beating.  I  had  no»  weapon  in  my  desk,  and  my  eyes 
cast  about  for  something  with  which  I  might  defend 
myself,  but  I  saw  nothing.  There  are  some  sensations 
which  without  any  previous  experience  we  seem  to 
feel  instinctively:  for  the  first  time  in  my  life  I  was 
258 


THE    FLAWLESS    EMERALD 

conscious  of  having  a  pistol  held  very  close  to  my 
head.  I  turned  slowly,  and  my  eyes  followed  the  bar- 
rel of  a  revolver  up  to  a  white  shirt-cuff,  the  sleeve  of 
a  tweed  suit,  and  then  to  a  face  partially  concealed 
by  a  black  mask.  Holding  the  revolver  very  close  to 
my  forehead,  the  man  reached  out  with  his  free  hand, 
took  the  emerald,  and  dropped  it  into  his  coat  pocket. 

"Now,  young  man,"  he  said,  with  the  revolver 
still  held  in  very  close  proximity  to  my  head,  "take  a 
piece  of  that  note-paper  and  write  what  I  tell  you." 

I  was  completely  in  his  power,  and  so  I  took  out 
the  paper  and  wrote  as  the  thief  dictated.  This  is 
what  I  was  forced  to  write:  "I  hereby  swear  that 
this  night  I  have  been  in  full  possession  of  the  flaw- 
less emerald  which  belongs  to  Miss  Ada  Caldara." 

"Now  write  the  date,"  the  burglar  said,  "and  sign 
the  note  with  your  full  name." 

I  did  as  I  was  told,  and  the  man  picked  up  the 
paper  and  stuck  it  in  the  pocket  where  he  had  already 
placed  the  emerald.  Then  he  backed  toward  the  door. 

"Young  man,"  he  said,  when  he  had  found  the 
door  knob,  "my  advice  to  you  is  not  to  move.  If  you 
do  I  may  get  it  pretty  bad  if  I'm  caught,  but  you'll 
259 


THE    STAGE    DOOR 

get  the  worst  of  it  whatever  happens."  He  spoke  with 
great  authority,  and  even  before  he  had  opened  the 
door  and  backed  slowly  out  I  was  convinced  that 
there  was  much  truth  in  his  argument.  If  I  ran  to  the 
window  and  called  the  police,  and  if  they  came  in 
time  to  catch  the  culprit,  which  was  most  doubtful 
at  that  time  of  night  and  in  that  neighborhood,  I 
could  only  accuse  the  man  of  stealing  a  gem  which 
after  all  had  come  into  my  own  possession  under  the 
most  suspicious  circumstances.  Thus  I  argued  with 
myself  until  I  heard  my  front  door  close  with  a  bang. 
Then  I  jumped  up,  threw  open  the  window  and 
looked  out;  but  the  street  was  apparently  deserted 
and  I  heard  no  footsteps  to  mar  the  stillness  of  the 
night.  I  returned  to  my  desk,  relighted  my  pipe,  and 
pondered  long  over  my  loss — or  rather  that  of  Miss 
Caldara — and  just  how  great  was  my  responsibility 
in  the  matter.  I  know  that  I  cursed  the  day  I  had 
ever  heard  of  the  flawless  emerald.  Here  I  was,  about 
to  set  out  on  my  first  long  vacation  abroad,  suddenly 
confronted  with  the  unpleasant  facts  that  I  had  been 
the  receiver  of  stolen  goods,  and  that  I  had  then  been 
deprived  of  the  same  goods  in  a  most  ignominious 
260 


THE    FLAWLESS    EMERALD 

manner,  by  an  extraordinary  burglar,  who,  not  con- 
tent with  his  swag,  must  force  me  to  give  him  a  sworn 
statement  that  it  had  once  been  in  my  possession. 
This  was  surely  no  ordinary  "second-story"  worker, 
for  in  no  way  did  he  conform  to  the  general  idea  of 
the  type.  His  clothes  were  well  cut,  his  linen  was  of 
the  finest,  and  his  voice  was  apparently  that  of  a  man 
of  culture.  Of  course,  I  know  that  many  men  of  re- 
finement have  become  burglars,  and  the  value  of  the 
prize  in  this  case  was  worthy  of  the  best  of  rogues, 
but  I  could  not  imagine  what  he  wanted  with  that 
carefully  worded  statement.  Admitting  that  I  had 
written  myself  down  a  thief,  of  what  possible  use 
could  my  caller  in  the  black  mask  make  of  it  ?  My 
only  satisfaction  was  in  the  thought  that  I  was  really 
not  guilty,  and  that  while  I  had  been  robbed  with 
ridiculous  ease,  no  one,  however  brave,  could  have 
acted  differently.  My  position  was  a  most  unfortu- 
nate one,  and  after  thinking  for  a  long  time  over  the 
matter  I  reached  the  conclusion  that  if  the  law  did 
not  prevent,  I  would  still  take  my  vacation  abroad 
and  the  incidents  of  that  evening  should  hasten 
rather  than  retard  my  departure.  In  fact,  I  decided 
261 


THE    STAGE    DOOR 

that  the  next  steamer  to  leave  the  port  of  New  York 
was  the  best  boat  for  me.  Fortunately  I  had  that 
morning's  Herald  in  my  room,  and  I  eagerly  scanned 
the  shipping  news  to  find  if  there  were  a  ship  sailing 
the  next  morning.  There  was  only  one,  and  it  was 
bound  for  Naples  and  Genoa. 

I  had  often  wanted  to  visit  Italy,  the  home  of  ro- 
mance and  adventure,  and  here  was  my  opportunity. 
By  this  time,  however,  I  had  convinced  myself  that 
I  had  no  choice  in  the  matter,  and  so  I  determined 
to  positively  sail  the  next  morning.  I  went  into  my 
bedroom  to  begin  my  preparations  for  departure, 
and  for  the  first  time  observed  how  the  burglar  had 
entered  my  apartment.  He  had  not  even  taken  the 
trouble  to  close  the  window  leading  to  the  fire-escape, 
up  which  he  had  evidently  climbed  from  the  court 
below.  Having  reached  the  platform  of  the  fire-escape, 
nothing  could  be  easier  than  to  enter  the  bedroom, 
as  the  window  was  usually  open,  and  even  when 
closed  had  no  safety  catch.  The  apartments  in  my 
neighborhood  were  never  built  for  burglars.  Or, 
perhaps,  I  should  say  were  built  expressly  for  them. 

As  my  boat  did  not  sail  until  noon  the  next  day, 
262 


THE    FLAWLESS    EMERALD 

I  had  plenty  of  time  to  do  my  packing,  buy  my  ticket, 
take  out  a  modest  letter  of  credit,  and  at  such  odd 
moments  as  I  could  find  run  through  the  morning 
papers  for  any  news  concerning  the  loss  of  Miss 
Caldara's  emerald. 

All  of  them  mentioned  the  fact  that  the  actress 
had  been  robbed  of  a  valuable  jewel  on  her  way 
from  the  stage  door  to  her  brougham;  some  treated 
the  matter  most  seriously  and  devoted  much  space 
to  the  details,  while  others  referred  to  the  incident 
but  briefly  and  with  a  tinge  of  suspicion.  But  I  at  least 
knew  that  this  was  not  the  imaginings  of  a  press 
agent  but  a  bona-fide  robbery — two  robberies  in  fact. 

My  emotions,  as  I  leaned  over  the  rail  and  watched 
the  steamship  back  out  of  the  slip,  were  indeed  of  a 
curious  mixture.  Had  it  not  been  for  the  unfortunate 
incident  of  the  emerald,  my  feelings  would  have  been 
simply  those  of  elation  at  the  prospect  of  visiting 
Italy,  which  I  always  had  longed  to  see,  but  as  it 
was  I  felt  that  I  was  leaving  my  own  dear  country 
under  a  cloud — a  cloud  the  dimensions  and  blackness 
of  which  might  greatly  increase  before  I  even  reached 
Naples.  My  love  for  romance  and  adventure  seemed 
263 


THE    STAGE    DOOR 

to  have  been  entirely  eradicated  from  my  system  by 
the  events  of  the  night  previous.  These  and  many 
other  unpleasant  thoughts  whirled  through  my  brain 
as  I  watched  the  tiny  waves  lapping  at  the  side  of  the 
great  black  boat,  and  I  finally  turned  away  from 
my  place  at  the  rail  with  a  heavy  heart.  I  had 
walked  but  a  few  steps  along  the  deck  when  I  came 
face  to  face  with  the  younger  of  the  two  men  I  had 
seen  the  day  before  at  the  club. 

I  must  say  that  he  was  apparently  as  much  sur- 
prised at  the  meeting  as  myself,  and  his  face  showed 
his  feelings  plainly.  At  that  instant  I  knew  in  my 
heart  that  he  had  been  associated  in  some  way  with 
the  robbery  of  the  flawless  emerald.  I  was  sure  of  it. 
He  knew  its  great  value,  he  had  been  at  the  stage 
door  when  the  gem  was  stolen,  and  he  was,  like  my- 
self, a  passenger  on  board  the  first  steamer  to  leave 
New  York  after  the  robbery.  I  walked  up  the  deck, 
and  then  turning,  followed  him  at  a  considerable 
distance.  Unsuspected,  I  at  last  saw  him  go  into  a 
deck  state-room.  Then  I  sat  down  on  somebody's 
steamer  chair  and  waited.  When  the  bugle  blew  for 
lunch  I  took  my  stand  near  the  gangway,  and,  having 
264 


THE    FLAWLESS    EMERALD 

seen  him  pass  safely  into  the  dining-saloon,  I  started 
at  once  for  his  state-room.  The  door  was  open,  and 
the  whole  place  was  strewn  with  the  morning  and 
early  editions  of  the  evening  papers.  I  entered  and 
found,  as  I  suspected,  that  every  paper  was  open  at 
the  page  whereon  appeared  the  story  of  Miss  Cal- 
dara's  loss.  I  was  convinced  then  that  on  board  of  the 
very  same  boat  as  myself  was  the  flawless  emerald, 
and,  in  all  probability,  the  thief  himself.  Of  the  latter 
fact  I  was  not  at  all  sure — there  was  a  certain  general 
similarity  between  the  man  on  the  boat  and  the  one 
who  had  robbed  me  of  the  gem,  but  I  could  not  quite 
establish  any  particular  point  of  resemblance. 

During  the  voyage  I  saw  very  little  of  Norman 
Vanvoorst,  for  that  was  the  name  of  the  man  whom  I 
believed  to  have  possession  of  the  emerald.  He  did 
not  seem  to  care  to  associate  with  his  fellow-passen- 
gers, and  either  remained  in  his  cabin  or  sat  alone 
on  the  deck,  reading  such  books  of  travel  as  the  ship's 
library  afforded.  For  hours  and  hours  I  paced  the 
deck,  trying  to  figure  out  in  my  own  mind  the  true 
mystery  of  the  robbery,  and  if  there  were  no  possible 
way  by  which  I  could  regain  the  stone  from  my  fel- 
265 


THE    STAGE    DOOR 

low-passenger.  It  was  useless  to  visit  his  cabin,  for  if 
he  were  the  present  possessor  of  the  emerald  it  was 
quite  certain  that  he  either  carried  it  on  his  person 
or  had  given  it  to  the  purser  for  safe-keeping.  One 
thing  which  led  me  to  the  former  belief  was  a  pecu- 
liarity he  had  of  occasionally  feeling  for  something 
in  his  clothes  just  over  his  heart,  or  about  where  the 
upper  pocket  of  his  waistcoat  would  be.  Often  as  I 
watched  him  sitting  in  his  steamer  chair  or  walking 
along  the  deck  I  saw  his  hand  steal  to  the  same  spot 
over  his  heart,  and  in  time  I  became  convinced  that 
it  was  here  that  he  carried  the  emerald.  The  easiest 
solution  of  the  robbery,  so  it  seemed  to  me,  was  that 
Vanvoorst  had  heard  of  the  almost  priceless  jewel  at 
a  time  when  he  was  in  great  need  of  money,  that  he 
had  gone  to  the  stage  door  on  that  eventful  night, 
and  had  watched  his  confederate,  who  was  probably 
a  practised  pick-pocket,  steal  the  jewel-box  from 
Miss  Caldara  and  by  mistake  pass  it  to  me  instead 
of  to  himself.  The  error  once  made,  there  was  noth- 
ing to  do  but  follow  me  to  my  home  and  rob  me  in 
the  masterly  fashion  which  one  of  them  most  certainly 
accomplished.  Of  one  thing  I  am  convinced,  and  that 


THE    FLAWLESS    EMERALD 

was  that  long  before  we  reached  Gibraltar  I  had  lost 
all  sense  of  fear  for  my  own  part  in  the  robbery  and 
thought  only  of  revenge  and  the  possibility  of  getting 
the  emerald  from  Vanvoorst,  and  in  due  time  return- 
ing it  to  its  rightful  owner.  But  I  could  devise  no 
means  to  accomplish  these  ends — to  have  tried  to 
take  the  jewel  back  by  main  force  would  have  been 
madness,  and  I  should  only  have  been  put  in  irons  for 
my  trouble.  But  on  one  point  I  was  quite  determined. 
Wherever  Vanvoorst  left  the  boat  I  should  leave  too, 
and  follow  him  as  long  as  my  resources  lasted. 

We  remained  fellow-passengers  until  we  reached 
Genoa,  when  it  became  necessary  for  both  of  us  to 
land,  as  this  was  the  last  stop  the  boat  made.  When 
he  sent  his  luggage  to  the  railroad  station,  I  sent  my 
porter  after  his,  and  when  he  had  his  trunks  regis- 
tered for  Monte  Carlo,  I  sent  mine  after  them.  I  shall 
always  remember  that  day,  as  the  train  jolted  its  way 
along  the  coast  through  a  perfect  garden  of  tropical 
plants.  The  deep  blue  of  the  sky,  the  sea  a  rainbow 
of  color,  and  the  gray  rocks  covered  with  myriads  of 
gorgeous  flowers  gave  me  a  new-born  love  of  nature, 
and  for  the  time  I  forgot  that  there  ever  had  been 
267 


THE    STAGE    DOOR 

such  a  person  as  Miss  Caldara,  or  such  a  gem  as 
the  flawless  emerald,  or  that  Mr.  Norman  Van- 
voorst  occupied  a  compartment  in  the  same  car  as 
my  own. 

It  was  late  in  the  afternoon  when  we  arrived  at 
Monte  Carlo,  and  I  waited  on  the  station  platform 
until  I  saw  Vanvoorst  get  into  the  omnibus  from  the 
Hotel  de  Paris.  I  followed  in  a  carriage  with  my  lug- 
gage, and  was  soon  most  comfortably  settled  in  a 
large  bright  room  overlooking  the  sea.  There  was 
little  probability  of  my  man  leaving  the  place  that 
evening,  and  so  I  determined  to  devote  the  night  to 
my  own  amusement.  After  a  good  dinner  I  went 
over  to  the  Casino,  a  resort  which  I  had  long  wished 
to  see,  and  although  I  understood  but  little  of  the 
games  of  roulette  or  trente-et-quarante,  I  found  the 
scene  a  most  diverting  one.  I  had  been  wandering 
about  from  table  to  table  for  perhaps  half  an  hour, 
when  there  was  a  sudden  and  to  me  inexplicable 
stampede  toward  one  of  the  rooms  at  the  farther  end 
of  the  building,  where  the  trente-et-quarante  tables 
were  situated.  I  hurried  along  with  the  crowd,  and  as 
I  passed  two  men,  who  were  evidently  English,  I 
268 


THE    FLAWLESS    EMERALD 

heard  one  of  them  say  to  the  other:  "Hurry  up — old 
Neimeyer  is  trying  to  break  the  bank." 

This  indeed  was  good  luck  for  me.  I  had  not  only 
always  wanted  to  see  the  bank  at  Monte  Carlo 
broken,  but  I  most  certainly  wanted  to  see  the  man 
who  was  going  to  do  it,  especially  if  he  were  the  Nei- 
meyer who  had  once  possessed  the  flawless  emerald. 
By  the  time  I  reached  the  trente-et-quarante  room, 
the  place  was  crowded  to  the  point  of  suffocation. 
It  was  impossible  to  make  my  way  through  the  dense 
mob  surging  about  the  table,  so  I  climbed  on  one  of 
the  velvet  lounges  and  had  a  fine  view  of  the  whole 
proceeding.  Mr.  Neimeyer  looked  about  sixty  years 
of  age,  was  short  and  stout,  and  quite  bald.  Of  all  the 
immense  crowd  in  the  big  room  he  seemed  to  be  the 
only  one  who  had  not  temporarily  gone  mad.  He  sat 
at  the  side  of  the  table,  half-way  between  the  crou- 
piers, and  as  each  time  he  put  down  the  maximum  bet 
of  twelve  thousand  francs  and  waited  for  the  cards 
to  be  dealt,  he  smiled  and  chatted  pleasantly  with 
the  croupiers.  When  he  won,  and  it  seemed  as  if  he 
could  not  lose,  his  little  eyes  twinkled  and  he  folded 
up  his  winnings  and  stuck  the  notes  deep  in  his  inside 
269 


THE    STAGE    DOOR 

pocket.  During  the  few  plays  I  saw  him  make  the 
excitement  in  the  room  was  intense,  for,  as  I  after- 
ward learned,  it  is  considered  a  most  difficult  feat  to 
break  the  bank  at  trente-et-quarante.  The  finish 
came  very  quickly  and,  at  least  to  me,  most  unex- 
pectedly. Neimeyer  had  as  usual  bet  the  maximum 
and  as  usual  won.  The  chief  croupier  opened  the  lid 
of  his  brass-bound  money-chest,  looked  into  it  and 
then  across  the  table  at  Neimeyer,  smiled  pleasantly 
and  nodded  his  head.  Then  with  one  of  the  croupier's 
rakes,  he  rapped  on  the  bell  lying  in  the  centre  of  the 
table,  which  was  the  sign  for  one  of  the  attendants 
to  bring  another  chest  of  money.  At  the  sound  of  the 
bell  the  crowd  broke  into  a  loud  cheer,  and  in  the 
general  confusion  that  followed  I  asked  an  English- 
man standing  near  who  it  was  that  had  broken  the 
bank,  and  he  told  me  it  was  Neimeyer,  the  famous 
antiquity  dealer  from  London.  I  was  glad,  for  I  felt 
that  before  I  left  Monte  Carlo  I  probably  should  need 
his  services  and  that  he  possibly  might  need  mine. 

When  the  rooms  had  been  closed  for  the  night  I  fol- 
lowed the  crowd  out  of  the  Casino,  and  with  many 
others  crossed  the  road  to  the  cafe  opposite.  In  that 
270 


THE    FLAWLESS    EMERALD 

scene  of  gayety  I  must  admit  that  I  felt  most  lonely 
and  miserable.  I  would  have  given  much  for  the  sight 
of  the  face  of  a  friend,  or  even  an  acquaintance,  with 
whom  I  could  have  had  a  good-night  drink.  I  sat 
alone  at  a  table  near  the  wall  and  listened  to  the 
Hungarian  band  and  watched  the  merry-makers 
about  me.  Not  twenty  feet  from  me  Vanvoorst  sat  at 
a  table  with  two  very  smart-looking  women  and  a 
man,  who  were  evidently  old  friends.  I  noticed  that 
they  continually  glanced  up  at  the  Casino  clock,  and 
after  perhaps  half  an  hour  the  whole  party  arose  and 
started  in  the  direction  of  the  railway  station.  It  was 
evident  that  Vanvoorst's  friends  were  stopping  at 
Nice  or  Cannes  and  had  come  down  to  Monte  Carlo 
to  dine  and  spend  the  evening  with  him.  Now  he  was 
going  to  accompany  them  to  the  station  and  would 
probably  return  alone.  I  paid  my  check  and  then  fol- 
lowed them  at  a  safe  distance  through  the  gardens. 
I  saw  them  go  down  the  hill,  but  I  remained  on  a 
rocky  terrace  overlooking  the  sea.  I  heard  the  Nice 
train  arrive  and  depart,  and  then  I  retraced  my  steps 
to  a  turn  in  the  path  where  the  garden  seemed  to  be 
the  most  isolated  and  the  foliage  the  thickest.  I  stood 
271 


THE    STAGE    DOOR 

behind  some  bushes,  where  the  leaves  completely 
hid  me  from  view,  and  waited  for  the  return  of  my 
man.  I  saw  him  slowly  walking  up  the  path — he  was 
smoking  and  completely  unconscious  that  he  was 
being  watched.  As  he  reached  a  point  opposite  the 
bushes  behind  which  I  had  been  concealed,  I  stepped 
out  in  the  middle  of  the  path  and  confronted  him. 
For  a  moment  there  was  silence,  while  I  looked  him 
full  in  the  eyes,  and  he  in  return  regarded  me  with  a 
look  of  the  most  languid  interest. 

"Well?  "he  said  at  last. 

"You  have,"  I  answered,  "in  your  possession  an 
emerald,  the  property  of  Miss  Ada  Caldara,  which 
you  stole  or  had  stolen  from  me.  You  are  going  to  give 
it  to  me,  and  you  are  going  to  give  it  to  me  now." 

"That,"  said  Vanvoorst,  "is,  I  regret  to  say,  not 
the  case.  I  have  not  got  Miss  Caldara's  emerald  about 
me,  and  if  you  crossed  the  ocean  in  the  hope  of  re- 
gaining it,  you  have  made  a  serious  mistake,  for  the 
stone  is  still  in  New  York.  Will  you  now  kindly  let  me 
pass  or  are  you  going  to  try  to  go  through  my  clothes  ? 
I  should  not  advise  you  to  try  the  latter  plan,  as  you 
would  probably  be  interrupted  by  a  guard,  and  you 
272 


possibly  know  that  the  laws  over  here  for  foreign 
criminals  are  most  complicated." 

"It  is  possible,"  I  answered,  "that  you  have  not 
the  emerald  with  you  at  this  moment,  but  when  you 
say  it  is  not  in  Monte  Carlo  you  lie.  There  is  another 
here  who  has  a  greater  interest  in  that  particular 
jewel  than  myself,  and  he  is  very  powerful  and  very 
rich,  and  with  his  aid  I  will  yet  defeat  you.  On  the 
steamer  you  carried  the  emerald  in  your  upper  waist- 
coat pocket  over  your  heart.  I  know  that  it  is  not 
there  now,  but  it  is  not  far  away,  and,  be  sure,  I  will 
not  lose  sight  of  you  until  I  have  recovered  it." 

I  stepped  aside,  and  Vanvoorst  sauntered  on  his 
way  to  the  hotel.  Once  again  I  had  been  made  a  fool 
of  and  accomplished  nothing,  except  that  the  man 
had  practically  admitted  his  knowledge  of  the  rob- 
bery of  the  emerald.  I  returned  to  my  room  tired  and 
discouraged,  and  as  I  lay  in  bed  I  decided  that  if  no 
device  occurred  to  me  on  the  morrow  whereby  I 
could  recover  the  emerald,  I  should  go  to  Neimeyer, 
tell  him  the  whole  story,  and  ask  for  his  aid,  which 
under  the  circumstances,  I  did  not  see  how  he  could 
well  refuse. 

273 


THE    STAGE    DOOR 

The  next  day  I  spent  in  the  gambling  rooms,  for 
the  most  part  watching  Vanvoorst  lose  at  roulette. 
He  played  a  reckless  game,  and,  as  the  luck  seemed 
to  be  all  against  him,  his  losses  must  have  been  very 
heavy.  After  he  had  lost  all  the  French  money  he  had 
with  him,  he  took  out  of  his  pocket-book  some  Ameri- 
can bank-notes  and  sent  an  attendant  to  have  them 
changed  into  French  money.  He  continued  to  play 
with  this  for  some  time,  but  his  bad  luck  would  not 
leave  him,  and  he  finally  lost  his  last  gold  piece.  With 
a  gesture  of  disgust,  he  left  the  table  and  hurried  from 
the  room.  I  had  been  sitting  across  the  table,  and,  in 
order  to  hold  my  position,  had  been  making  some 
modest  wagers  on  the  game,  of  which  by  this  time  I 
had  picked  up  a  fairly  good  understanding.  As  I  had 
been  playing  in  direct  opposition  to  Vanvoorst,  I  was 
a  good  winner,  and  was  loath  to  quit  playing,  al- 
though I  had  a  presentiment  that  should  have  kept 
me  from  letting  him  for  a  moment  out  of  my  sight.  I 
continued  to  play  for  perhaps  half  an  hour,  when  my 
luck  changed,  and  after  losing  a  part  of  my  winnings 
I  got  up  from  the  table  and  went  out  of  the  Casino 
for  a  breath  of  fresh  air.  Just  as  I  reached  the  steps 
274 


THE    FLAWLESS    EMERALD 

I  saw  Neimeyer  some  distance  off,  and  walking  in  the 
direction  of  the  Galerie  Charles  III.  With  no  definite 
purpose,  I  followed  him  and  saw  him  enter  the 
Galerie  and  stroll  slowly  along,  stopping  frequently 
to  look  into  the  windows  of  the  little  shops.  I  think  it 
is  the  third  one  from  the  entrance  that  is  occupied  by 
a  jeweller,  and  as  I  slowly  followed  Neimeyer  I  no- 
ticed that  the  window  was  full  of  the  most  beautiful 
gems  and  the  finest  specimens  of  the  goldsmith's  art. 
As  I  afterward  learned,  it  is  a  shop  most  liberally 
patronized  by  those  who  have  lost  their  money  at  the 
gaming-tables,  and  must  necessarily  sell  their  jewels 
or  valuables  to  recoup  their  depleted  fortunes.  There 
were  certainly  some  very  remarkable  jewels  in  the 
window  on  this  occasion,  and  the  prices  seemed  to  be 
particularly  moderate.  I  glanced  over  the  different 
articles,  and  was  about  to  turn  away  and  continue 
my  walk  up  the  Galerie,  when  my  eye  fell  on  a  jewel 
which  I  at  once  knew  I  had  seen  before.  It  was  the 
flawless  emerald.  Like  many  of  the  other  jewels,  it 
was  pinned  to  a  white  card  on  which  were  written 
the  words  "Occasion— 12,000  fr."  To  be  sure  that 
there  was  no  mistake,  I  went  into  the  shop  and  asked 
275 


THE    STAGE    DOOR 

to  examine  the  jewel  more  closely.  I  held  it  up  to  the 
light,  and  it  was  without  a  flaw.  In  addition  to  this 
there  could  be  no  mistaking  the  color,  the  shape,  and 
the  cutting.  It  was  evident  that  Vanvoorst  had  sold 
the  emerald.  At  last  I  had  .found  the  jewel  I  sought, 
but  the  price  placed  it  as  far  beyond  my  reach  as  it 
had  ever  been.  Much  as  I  wanted  the  stone  back,  I 
could  not  afford  twelve  thousand  francs.  I  left  the 
shop  and  walked  down  to  the  end  of  the  Galerie, 
where  I  found  Mr.  Neimeyer  sitting  on  the  balustrade 
looking  out  on  that  wonderful  picture  of  rocks  and 
sea.  My  mind  was  already  made  up,  and  I  approached 
the  money-lender  and  introduced  myself.  He  received 
my  advances  pleasantly  and  made  a  few  conventional 
remarks  about  the  view  which  lay  before  us. 

"I  know,  Mr.  Neimeyer,"  I  said,  "that  you  are  a 
connoisseur  and  a  recognized  authority  on  the  beau- 
tiful things  of  this  world,  and  there  is  something  in 
the  window  of  a  little  shop  on  the  Galerie  of  which  I 
wish  to  ask  your  opinion.  Could  you  so  far  oblige 
me?" 

Mr.  Neimeyer  smiled  his  assent,  and  together  we 
walked  to  the  jeweller's  window. 
276 


THE    FLAWLESS    EMERALD 

"Do  you  see  that  emerald  ?"  I  asked,  and  watched 
closely  the  expression  of  his  face.  "It  is  flawless,"  I 
continued,  "and  you  know  that  flawless  emeralds  of 
that  size  are  exceedingly  rare.  The  price,  twelve 
thousand  francs,  seems  very  small?" 

The  old  man  showed  but  a  polite  interest  in  the 
emerald,  and  his  manner,  I  must  confess,  annoyed 
me  greatly. 

"The  fact,"  he  said,  "that  the  price  is  small  has 
really  little  bearing  on  its  value.  Strictly  speaking, 
this  is  not  a  pawn-shop,  but  the  owner  buys  jewels 
outright  from  people  who  need  the  money  very  badly 
and  sells  them  again  at  what  he  considers  a  legitimate 
profit.  I  should  say  it  is  no  doubt  an  excellent  place 
to  find  bargains,  and  this  emerald  very  possibly  may 
be  one.  Personally,  I  know  nothing  of  jewels.  I  am — 
at  least,  so  they  say — an  authority  on  antiquities,  but 
I  have  never  wasted  my  time  over  gems  any  more 
than  I  have  over  ceramics.  To  understand  either  of 
these  subjects  a  man  must  devote  his  whole  life  to 
it.  I  hadn't  the  time,  and  so  when  they  came  in 
my  way  I  hired  an  expert  to  give  me  their  true 
value." 

277 


THE    STAGE    DOOR 

"Then  I  am  to  understand,"  I  said,  "that  you 
have  never  owned  a  famous  flawless  emerald?" 

The  old  man  regarded  me  curiously  with  his  beady 
eyes.  "No,"  he  answered,  "never.  Was  that  what 
you  wished  to  know  ?"  he  added. 

"Thank  you,  yes,"  I  said,  "and  I  will  not  trouble 
you  further."  I  raised  my  hat,  the  old  man  smiled  in 
return,  and  I  turned  on  my  heel  and  walked  slowly 
up  the  path.  He  was  either  a  very  truthful  old  gen- 
tleman or  a  consummate  actor,  and  I  chose  to  be- 
lieve the  latter. 

"Twelve  thousand  francs,"  I  repeated  again  and 
again  as  I  walked  up  the  hill.  In  my  pocket  I  had 
something  over  two  thousand  francs.  The  English 
bank  and  the  Credit  Lyonnais  were  closed  for  the 
day,  and  even  had  they  been  open  my  letter  of  credit 
was  hardly  equal  to  the  emergency.  Half-way  to  the 
hotel  I  stopped  and  looked  up  at  the  yellow  walls  of 
the  Casino.  Through  the  open  windows  I  could  hear 
the  droning  voices  of  the  croupiers  and  the  ceaseless 
chink  of  the  gold  and  silver  pieces.  Within,  I  knew 
that  the  tables  were  covered  with  them,  and  in  the 
vaults  below  were  many,  many  millions,  and  yet  I 
278 


THE    FLAWLESS    EMERALD 

stood  there  impotent  and  routed,  and  only  twelve 
thousand  francs  between  myself  and  victory. 

"Black,  black,"  I  said  to  myself  over  and  over 
again,  as  I  hurried  on  to  the  door  of  the  Casino.  I 
walked  to  the  first  roulette  table  and  put  my  two 
thousand  francs  on  the  black. 

"Dix,  noir,  pair  et  manque,"  called  the  croupier. 

I  left  the  money  on  the  table  and  saw  the  little 
marble  once  more  fall  into  a  black  pocket.  Some  one 
shoved  two  one-thousand-franc  notes  toward  me  and 
left  the  remaining  six  on  the  color.  For  one  moment 
I  tried  to  say  "Rouge,"  but  my  throat  was  parched 
and  the  same  voice  inside  of  me  kept  on  whispering 
"Black,  black."  "Vingt-six,  noir,  pair  et  passe," 
sang  out  the  croupier.  I  had  played  the  maximum 
and  won.  I  gathered  up  the  notes  and  stuck  them 
deep  into  my  trousers  pocket.  "I  win!  I  win!"  I  said 
to  myself  as  I  hurried  out  of  the  Casino  and  started 
on  a  run  for  the  Galerie.  For  a  moment  I  paused  to 
glance  into  the  window  of  the  jeweller's.  The  emerald 
was  gone! 

I  rushed  into  the  shop.  "There  was,"  I  gasped, 
"an  emerald  in  your  window." 
279 


THE    STAGE    DOOR 

"Yes,"  said  the  woman  behind  the  counter,  "we 
sold  it  but  a  few  moments  since." 

"Of  course,"  I  answered,  "to  a  friend  of  mine,  an 
old  man,  very  short  and  stout,  and  with  a  Jewish 
face." 

The  woman  nodded  and  smiled.  "It  was  a  great 
bargain,  I  think,"  she  said,  "but  we  had  a  rare  op- 
portunity to  buy  it  very  cheap." 

Once  more  I  climbed  the  hill,  but  I  did  not  stop  to 
listen  at  the  open  windows  of  the  Casino.  I  went  to 
my  room  in  the  hotel  and  threw  myself  on  the  bed. 
I  was  tired  and  discouraged,  and  decided  to  take  my 
leave  on  the  morrow — never  again  did  I  want  to  see 
Monte  Carlo  or  Vanvoorst  or  Neimeyer.  To  be  sure, 
the  latter  had  but  come  into  his  own,  and  I  should 
have  been  satisfied,  but  a  pain  about  my  heart  told 
me  that  it  was  not  as  I  would  have  had  it.  In  all  my 
dealings  with  the  flawless  emerald  it  appeared,  after 
all,  that  my  interest  had  been  solely  inspired  by 
a  desire  in  some  way  to  assist  Miss  Caldara.  And 
now  I  was  defeated  in  my  hunt,  and  she  would 
never  know  how  very  hard  I  had  toiled  on  her 
behalf,  and  the  smile  and  the  word  of  thanks  with 
280 


"I  put  my  money  on  the  black." 


THE    FLAWLESS    EMERALD 

which  I  had  hoped  to  be  rewarded  were  never  to  be 
mine. 

By  the  next  morning  I  had  decided  to  take  the 
first  train  for  Genoa  and  from  there  to  go  on  a  short 
tour  of  Italy.  I  packed  my  trunk,  paid  my  bill  at  the 
hotel,  and  started  for  the  station.  Arriving  there,  I  dis- 
covered that  there  had  been  an  accident  on  the  road, 
and  that  my  train  would  be  at  least  an  hour  late. 
I  left  my  luggage  at  the  station  and  walked  up  the 
hill  to  have  one  more  look  at  the  gaming-tables,  al- 
though I  was  determined  not  to  give  back  any  of  my 
winnings.  I  left  my  hat  and  overcoat  at  the  cloak- 
room and  stopped  for  a  moment  to  speak  to  the 
flower-girl,  who  had  smilingly  offered  me  a  bouton- 
niere.  I  turned  my  head,  and  at  my  right  saw  Nei- 
meyer  waiting  to  give  his  things  to  the  attendant. 
From  his  inside  pocket  he  took  a  fat-looking  pocket- 
book,  and,  having  extracted  all  the  bank-notes  it  con- 
tained, stuck  it  back  in  the  pocket  of  his  overcoat  and 
handed  the  latter  to  one  of  the  girls  who  was  taking 
care  of  the  wraps.  As  she  gave  him  the  brass  coat- 
check,  I  heard  her  say  in  French,  "Thirty-four,  a 
lucky  number.  I  wish  you  success  with  it."  Neimeyer 
281 


THE    STAGE    DOOR 

smiled  and  bustled  on  toward  the  gambling  rooms.  I 
was  quite  sure  that  he  did  not  have  the  emerald  with 
him,  and  having  considered  the  matter  the  evening 
previous,  I  was  equally  sure  that  it  was  deposited  in 
the  safe  in  the  hotel  office  as  it  was  hardly  possible 
that  he  would  leave  so  valuable  an  article  in  his  room. 
If  the  emerald  was  in  the  safe  at  the  hotel,  then  the 
receipt  in  all  probability  was  in  the  big  pocket-book. 
In  any  case,  it  seemed  worth  the  chance;  so  I  went 
into  the  room  and  found  the  money-lender  playing 
his  usually  heavy  game  at  trente-et-quarante.  I  re- 
turned to  the  cloak-room,  and,  carefully  picking  out 
one  of  the  attendants  who  had  not  waited  on  Nei- 
meyer,  made  a  great  pretence  of  looking  for  my  hat- 
check. 

"It  was  number  thirty-four,"  I  said,  "but  I  seem 
to  have  lost  it." 

The  woman  smiled  politely,  but  without  apparent 
interest  in  my  loss.  I  took  out  a  five-franc  piece  and 
said  that  I  was  very  considerably  pressed  for  time. 
Again  the  woman  smiled  politely  and  said  that  I  had 
probably  left  it  on  the  table  where  I  had  been  play- 
ing. I  took  a  louis  out  of  my  pocket  and  said  that  if 
282 


THE    FLAWLESS    EMERALD 

she  could  let  me  have  my  things  it  would  be  a  great 
convenience. 

"It  is  very  irregular,"  she  said,  as  she  handed  me 
Neimeyer's  coat  and  hat,  "and  if  you  find  the  check 
I  hope  that  you  will  return  it." 

I  think  I  said  that  I  would,  but  did  not  waste  very 
much  time  in  formalities.  Once  out  of  the  Casino,  I 
hurriedly  looked  through  Neimeyer's  papers,  and 
among  the  first  I  discovered  was  the  receipt  for  a 
package  left  at  the  hotel.  I  held  the  paper  in  my  hand 
and  walked  hurriedly  up  to  the  clerk  at  the  hotel 
desk. 

"Mr.  Neimeyer,"  I  said,  "is  having  a  rather  bad 
run  of  luck  at  the  rooms  and  he  sent  me  over  for  this 
package,"  and  I  gave  the  clerk  the  receipt.  The  clerk 
was  apparently  used  to  such  hurry  calls  for  money 
and  suspected  nothing.  My  only  fear  was  that  the 
package  might  look  as  if  it  did  not  contain  bank- 
notes, but  the  sight  of  a  long  white  envelope  relieved 
me  of  all  my  fears.  I  left  the  hotel  on  a  run  for  the 
Casino,  but  once  outside,  I  stopped  to  tear  open  the 
envelope.  It  contained  a  plain  white  jewellers'  box, 
and  in  the  box  lay  the  emerald.  I  returned  to  the 
283 


THE    STAGE    DOOR 

Casino,  deposited  Neimeyer's  hat  and  coat  with  the 
pocket-book  in  the  pocket  in  which  I  had  originally 
found  it.  Then  I  went  upstairs  to  the  writing-room, 
put  twelve  thousand  francs  in  an  envelope,  addressed 
it  to  Neimeyer  at  the  Hotel  de  Paris,  stamped  and 
mailed  it,  and,  having  taken  out  my  own  hat  and 
coat,  walked  down  to  the  station  and  waited  for  the 
train.  I  believe  I  actually  did  not  have  to  walk  up 
and  down  the  platform  of  that  railway  station  for 
over  fifteen  minutes,  but  it  seemed  to  me  an  eternity. 
Even  when  once  started,  I  knew  that  there  was  an 
excellent  chance  of  being  stopped,  and  I  also  knew 
that  in  the  next  hour  I  should  have  crossed  the  boun- 
dary line  of  three  countries,  and  that  the  authorities 
of  Monaco  did  not  care  to  mix  in  international  legal 
complications  where  it  possibly  could  be  avoided. 
My  greatest  fear  of  detection  was  at  Genoa,  and  so  I 
remained  in  my  compartment  and  was  carried  on  to 
Pisa. 

From  Pisa  I  hurried  on  the  same  night  to  Leghorn, 

where,  as  I  had  hoped,  I  found  a  vessel  belonging  to 

one  of  the  smaller  steamship  lines  about  to  start  for 

New  York.  I  might  have  taken  a  chance  and  re- 

284 


THE    FLAWLESS    EMERALD 

mained  in  the  country,  but  I  cannot  say  that  my  mind 
was  much  attuned  to  sightseeing,  and  so  I  left  Italy 
a  fugitive  from  justice  just  as  a  few  weeks  before  I 
had  left  my  own  country.  Whatever  had  happened  in 
America  since  my  departure  in  regard  to  the  robbery 
of  the  emerald  I  did  not  know  or  care.  Now  I  was  in 
a  position  to  make  full  reparation  for  a  crime  I  had 
never  committed,  and,  with  the  flawless  emerald 
stuck  deep  down  in  my  inside  pocket,  I  feared 
nothing. 

My  return  voyage  to  America  was  long  and  un- 
pleasant, but,  once  back  in  my  old  rooms  in  New 
York,  my  first  act  was  to  write  Miss  Caldara  a  note 
asking  for  an  interview  which  I  assured  her  would  be 
of  great  mutual  benefit.  The  next  morning  I  received 
my  answer,  and  that  same  afternoon  I  found  myself 
most  comfortably  ensconced  in  a  deep  chair  in  Miss 
Caldara's  Louis  Quinze  drawing-room  and  ready  to 
tell  my  story  of  the  lost  emerald. 

Indeed,  I  could  not  have  wished  it  otherwise;  the 

white-and-gold  room  was  filled  with  great  masses  of 

flowers  and  plants,  and  the  whole  place  was  aglow 

with  the  orange  light  of  the  setting  sun.  Miss  Caldara 

285 


THE    STAGE    DOOR 

and  I  sat  on  opposite  sides  of  a  cosey  little  tea-table, 
and  the  fact  that  she  told  the  maid  that  she  was  at 
home  to  no  one  did  not  at  all  detract  from  my  hap- 
piness. 

"You  have  come,  no  doubt,"  began  Miss  Caldara, 
"  to  tell  me  of  all  your  troubles  in  connection  with  that 
awful  emerald." 

"I  have,"  I  answered,  "but  I  was  not  aware  that 
you  knew  of  my  connection  with  the  affair." 

The  actress  smiled  most  pleasantly  upon  me.  "I 
fear,  I  know,"  she  said,  "much  more  than  you  sus- 
pect, and  if  you  will  permit  me  I  shall  claim  a  woman's 
privilege  and  tell  my  story  first." 

"I  should  be  delighted,"  I  said,  and  sank  deeper 
down  in  my  chair  with  a  feeling  of  real  relief  that  I 
had  not  yet  told  her  that  at  that  very  moment  I  had 
the  emerald  in  my  inside  pocket. 

"Not  so  very  long  ago,"  began  Miss  Caldara,  "it 
really  seems  but  yesterday,  I  was  given  a  very  hand- 
some emerald." 

I  smiled  and  made  some  remark  to  the  effect  that 
I  was  not  wholly  ignorant  of  its  existence. 

"A  short  time  after  I  had  received  the  gift,"  con- 
286 


THE    FLAWLESS    EMERALD 

tinued  Miss  Caldara  "I  had  a  little  supper  party 
here  in  my  rooms  to  which  I  had  invited  Mr.  Arthur 
Kellard,  Mr.  Norman  Vanvoorst,  both  of  whom  I 
believe  you  know,  and  a  Mr.  Scott,  whom  I  do  not 
think  you  have  ever  met.  Mr.  Vanvoorst  is  really  a 
very  remarkable  young  man.  He  comes  of  an  old 
family  and  most  unfortunately  inherited  a  great  deal 
of  money.  Had  such  not  been  the  case  it  is  quite  cer- 
tain that  he  would  have  made  an  enviable  career  for 
himself  in  any  profession  which  he  chose  to  adopt. 
As  it  is,  he  has  devoted  his  life  to  jeunes  filles  dances, 
and  dinner  parties,  with  occasional  relapses  of  tiger- 
hunting  in  India,  and  more  or  less  successful  attempts 
to  break  automobile  records  on  circular  tracks.  He  is 
absolutely  without  fear,  and  is  constantly  trying  to 
find  a  new  sensation;  he  is  the  best  of  talkers,  and  in 
an  argument  insists  on  taking  the  wrong  side  and 
always  forming  himself  into  the  opposition.  On  the 
occasion  of  the  little  supper  party  which  I  mentioned, 
the  subject  of  my  recently  acquired  emerald  and  my 
other  jewels  came  up  for  discussion.  I  contended  that 
we  should  not  really  be  allowed  the  responsibility  of 
owning  such  valuable  jewels,  as  for  the  most  part 
287 


THE    STAGE    DOOR 

women  were  extremely  careless,  and  the  only  wonder 
to  me  was  that  the  robbery  of  valuable  gems  was  so 
very  rare.  Of  course,  Vanvoorst  took  the  opposite 
side  and  claimed  that  women  were  not  at  all  careless, 
and  that  the  whole  method  of  life  of  a  woman  rich 
enough  to  own  valuable  jewels  was  a  complete  forti- 
fication against  robbers.  'Everything,'  he  said,  'to- 
day is  for  the  rich  people  and  against  the  poor  burg- 
lar— the  private  bank  vaults,  the  safe  at  home,  the 
private  detective  in  the  theatre  and  at  all  the  large 
functions,  and  the  maid  with  a  pedigree  of  references 
a  yard  long  form  a  network  around  my  lady's  jewels 
which  makes  them  about  as  safe  as  if  they  were  still 
undug  from  the  rocks  in  which  they  were  formed. 
All  one  has  to  do  to  prove  my  point  is  to  look  over  the 
police  records — there  is  hardly  a  case  of  the  success- 
ful robbery  of  valuable  jewels.  And  it  is  for  this  that 
I  have  lost  all  patience  with  the  professional  burglar. 
He  spends  all  of  his  time  scheming  to  steal  only  the 
most  valuable  jewels  or  trying  to  break  into  a  bank, 
and  he  generally  gets  a  long  sentence  for  his  pains 
when  he  might  have  devoted  the  same  time  to  rob- 
bing the  fairly  well-to-do  class,  made  a  comfortable 


THE    FLAWLESS    EMERALD 

living,  and  without  any  particular  danger  of  arrest 
The  middle  classes  know  that  the  burglar  cares  really 
only  for  the  very  rich,  and  as  a  consequence  they  are 
absolutely  unprepared  for  any  attack  on  such  goods 
as  they  may  possess.  For  instance,  I  cannot  conceive 
of  any  possible  way  of  depriving  you  of  your  emerald, 
but  granted  that  it  has  passed  into  the  hands  of  any 
one  who  is  not  accustomed  to  the  possession  of  arti- 
cles of  value,  and  I  will  guarantee  to  deprive  him 
of  it  within  an  hour  from  the  time  he  first  laid  hands 
on  it.' 

"A  general  argument  followed,  and  the  two  men 
took  sides  with  Mr.  Vanvoorst  against  me.  To  make 
a  long  story  short,  the  talk  resulted  in  a  wager  in 
which  I  bet  Mr.  Vanvoorst  he  could  not  willingly  get 
back  my  emerald  in  an  hour  from  the  time  it  had 
come  into  another's  possession.  Of  course  the  great 
difficulty  was  to  select  the  person  to  give  it  to.  We 
discussed  many  young  men  of  our  acquaintance,  and 
had  about  decided  on  a  clerk  in  Mr.  Kellard's  office 
when  the  latter  suddenly  thought  of  yourself,  whom 
he  seems  to  have  known  fairly  well  in  a  business  way, 
and  you  were  selected  for  the  victim." 
289 


THE    STAGE    DOOR 

By  this  time  I  had  recovered  my  composure,  and 
I  found  sufficient  voice  to  ask  Miss  Caldara  some 
leading,  but  as  I  thought  pertinent,  questions. 

"And  then  as  I  understand  it,"  I  said,  "I  was  de- 
coyed to  the  club  to  listen  to  the  story  of  the  flawless 
emerald  with  the  sole  object  of  slipping  me  the  jewel 
at  the  stage  door." 

Miss  Caldara  smiled  sympathetically.  "Rather  in- 
genious of  Van voorst,  was  it  not  ?"  she  said. 

"And  it  was  he  who  later  robbed  me  ?"  I  asked. 

"Quite  so,"  answered  the  actress.  "You  see,  he 
found  out  that  the  apartment  over  your  own  was  not 
occupied,  so  he  got  the  keys  from  the  agent  on  the 
pretence  that  he  wanted  to  show  them  to  a  friend  late 
in  the  evening,  and  on  the  promise  of  returning  them 
the  following  morning.  After  he  had  slipped  the 
emerald  into  your  pocket  at  the  stage  door  he 
took  an  automobile  to  your  house,  let  himself  into 
the  vacant  apartment  and  came  down  to  your 
room  by  way  of  the  fire-escape.  It  was  really  quite  a 
vindication  of  his  theory,  wasn't  it?"  Miss  Caldara 
smiled  sweetly. 

"It  was,"  I  said,  "and  I  hope  he  won  his  wager. 
290 


THE    FLAWLESS    EMERALD 

He  even  had  the  documentary  evidence  to  prove  his 
victory." 

"Oh,  yes,"  answered  Miss  Caldara,  "but  owing 
to  your  delay  in  reaching  your  apartment  that  night 
it  was  a  question  whether  he  really  stole  the  jewel 
within  the  stipulated  time.  When,  however,  he  had 
returned  to  my  place  after  having  relieved  you  of 
the  stone,  and  we  had  all  thoroughly  gone  over  the 
terms  of  the  wager,  it  turned  out  that  in  any  case  I 
had  lost  on  a  simple  technicality." 

"You  interest  me  greatly,"  I  said,  somewhat  face- 
tiously. 

"You  see,"  ran  on  Miss  Caldara,  "by  the  terms  of 
the  agreement,  I  was  to  give  him  the  emerald  imme- 
diately after  I  left  the  stage  that  night,  so  that  he 
could  pass  it  on  to  you,  but  just  before  starting  for 
the  theatre  I  weakened,  left  the  real  emerald  at  home 
and  took  only  the  imitation  in  its  place." 

"The  imitation?"  I  gasped. 

"Yes,"  replied  Miss  Caldara.  "You  know  that 
nearly  every  actress  has  exact  imitations  made  of  her 
jewels  to  wear  on  every-day,  or,  I  should  say,  every- 
night,  occasions." 

291 


THE    STAGE    DOOR 

"Then  the  jewel  which  was  stolen  from  me  that 
night,"  I  asked,  "was  not  the  famous  flawless  em- 
erald which  young  Neimeyer  had  given  you?" 

"It  was  a  fine,  flawless  piece  of  green  glass,"  said 
the  actress,  smiling;  "and  young  Neimeyer  never 
gave  me  anything.  In  fact,  I  never  met  the  gentle- 
man. That  was  an  additional  and,  at  least  it  seemed 
to  me,  unnecessary  fiction  on  the  part  of  Mr.  Van- 
voorst  to  make  sure  that  you  would  go  to  the 
theatre." 

"Then  if  I  understand  you  aright,"  I  said,  "you 
really  did  once  own  some  sort  of  an  emerald  which 
somebody  gave  you,  and  both  it  and  its  imita- 
tion were  in  your  possession  after  your  robber  friend 
Vanvoorst  had  returned  here  that  night  with  the 
imitation  stone  which  he  took  from  me." 

"Of  course,"  said  Miss  Caldara.  "Very  lucky  for 
me,  wasn't  it  ?  " 

"Very,"  I  answered.  "And  have  you  got  them 

yet?" 

"Certainly,"  said  the  actress.  "The  original  is  in 
a  vault  at  the   bank  and   the  imitation  is  in  the 
next  room."  Miss  Caldara  smiled  in  very  joy  of  her 
292 


THE    FLAWLESS    EMERALD 

possessions,  and  my  fingers  unconsciously  stole  to 
the  package  in  my  pocket  containing  the  emerald  I 
had  stolen  from  old  Neimeyer. 

"  But  why,"  I  said,  "  did  your  friend  Vanvoorst  go 
abroad  immediately  after  the  robbery?" 

"That  was  quite  natural,"  answered  the  actress. 
"He  had  decided  to  sail  on  that  date  some  time 
previous  to  the  night  we  made  the  wager,  and  we 
fixed  the  date  of  the  robbery  to  suit  the  sailing.  I  sup- 
pose you  thought  it  was  just  the  other  way.  I  got  a 
letter  from  Vanvoorst  last  week,  and  he  told  me  that 
he  had  had  the  pleasure  of  meeting  you  in  the  Casino 
gardens  at  Monte  Carlo.  He  also  told  me  to  be  sure  to 
tell  you,  in  case  I  should  meet  you,  that  he  has  had 
the  silver  suspender-buckle  fixed  which  gave  you 
both  so  much  uneasiness.  It  seems  the  points  of  the 
clasp  were  constantly  sticking  into  him  just  over  his 
heart  and  under  his  upper  waistcoat  pocket.  I  won- 
der if  I  have  delivered  the  message  properly?  Per- 
haps I  had  better  show  you  his  letter." 

"Please  don't  disturb  yourself,"  I  begged.  "I  am 
sure  you  have  delivered  the  message  perfectly." 

"That's  good,"  said  Miss  Caldara;  "and  now  I 
293 


THE    STAGE    DOOR 

am  going  to  have  another  cup  of  tea,  and  you  can 
tell  me  your  story." 

I  sat  for  some  moments  looking  across  the  little 
table  at  a  beautiful  face  crowned  by  great  masses  of 
golden  hair.  For  a  brief  space  I  closed  my  eyes,  and 
with  the  incredible  swiftness  of  dreams  my  thoughts 
went  back  to  that  senseless  voyage  to  Italy,  and  the 
heavy-scented  flowers  in  the  room  seemed  to  recall 
to  me  those  unhappy  days  at  Monte  Carlo.  How  I 
hated  it  all!  And  yet  how  different  it  all  might  be — 
to  go  back  to  those  gardens,  not  in  search  of  a  flaw- 
less emerald,  but  just  for  rest  with  the  full  spirit  of 
content — to  go  back,  not  alone,  but  with  one  so 
beautiful  as 

"Well?"  said  Miss  Caldara.  The  maid  had  left 
the  room;  we  were  alone  again. 

"My  story,"  I  said,  "seems  to  begin  about  where 
yours  left  off.  It  is  even  then  quite  a  long  story,  and 
I  fear  it  is  near  the  time  for  you  to  go  to  the  theatre. 
I  think  we  had  better  postpone  it  until  another  day, 
and  when,  perhaps,  I  know  you  a  little  better.  I 
should  like  very  much,  however,  before  I  go,  to  see 
your  emerald." 

294 


THE    FLAWLESS    EMERALD 

Miss  Caldara  went  into  another  room  and  brought 
back  a  leather  case.  From  it  she  took  a  jewel  and 
handed  it  to  me. 

"This  is  only  the  imitation,"  she  said;  "the  real 
one,  unfortunately,  is  at  the  bank.  Do  you  recognize 
it?  You  should,  for  it  was  once  yours  for  a  whole 
hour." 

I  took  from  my  pocket  the  emerald  I  had  brought 
from  Monte  Carlo  and  laid  the  two  stones  side  by 
side  on  Miss  Caldara's  writing-table.  In  size  and  in 
the  cutting  they  were  almost  identical,  the  only  vari- 
ance being  in  the  mounting  of  the  gold  clasp  at  the 
back,  and  even  in  this  there  was  but  little  difference. 

"You  must  know  a  great  deal  about  gems,"  I  said. 
"What  do  you  think  of  this  one ?" 

The  actress  looked  at  it  curiously  for  some  time 
and  then  held  it  up  to  the  light. 

"It's  quite  flawless,"  she  said.  "They  make  the 
imitations  so  well  nowadays  that  only  an  expert  can 
distinguish  the  good  from  the  bad;  at  least  I  know  I 
cannot  tell  the  difference.  This  may  be  worth  a  great 
fortune,  and  it  may  be  a  piece  of  glass.  It  is  certainly 
one  or  the  other — any  jeweller  can  tell  you." 
295 


THE    STAGE    DOOR 

"Whatever  it  is,"  I  said,  "I  travelled  a  long  way 
to  get  it,  and  the  only  thought  I  ever  had  was  to 
bring  it  back  to  you." 

Miss  Caldara  looked  up  at  me  and  smiled,  and  in 
answer  shook  her  head. 

"You  are  very  good,"  she  said,  "but  some  day 
there  will  be  a  girl  who  will  have  a  right  to  it,  and 
then  you  might  be  sorry  that  you  had  given  it  to  me. 
I  hope  that  it  is  really  a  flawless  emerald,  and  that 
she  will  be  worthy  of  it." 

And  so  the  stone  lies  to-day  in  a  drawer  in  the  room 
in  which  I  was  once  so  ignominiously  robbed,  and  I 
fear,  will  continue  to  lie  there  unless  some  one  should 
again  choose  to  visit  me  by  way  of  the  fire-escape. 
Whether  it  is  worth  a  fortune,  or  whether  it  is  a  piece 
of  green  glass,  I  really  do  not  know,  for  I  have  never 
shown  it  to  any  one.  I  often,  however,  take  it  out  and 
look  at  it  late  at  night  and  when  I  am  alone.  I  value 
it  greatly,  not  for  its  possible  intrinsic  worth,  but 
because  I  regard  it  as  the  stepping-stone  to  my 
present  greatest  possession — the  true  friendship  of 
Ada  Caldara. 


296 


CARMICHAEL'S    CHRISTMAS 
SPIRIT 


CARMICHAEL'S    CHRISTMAS 
SPIRIT 

1  HE  bachelor  apartments  of  Henry  Carmichael  had 
long  been  mildly  celebrated  among  the  many  young 
women  who  counted  themselves  his  friends.  It  was 
not  the  unusual  luxury  of  the  rooms,  although  there 
was  quite  enough  of  that,  too,  even  for  a  young  man 
with  a  carefully  invested  fortune  and  no  real  respon- 
sibilities ;  but  Carmichael  had  in  many  ways  strongly 
impressed  upon  the  place  his  own  personality.  Dur- 
ing his  thirty  years  of  life  he  had  travelled  far  and 
in  many  different  directions,  and  had  met  many  peo- 
ple. Inherited  wealth  and  position,  to  which  he  had 
added  geography,  had  supplied  him  with  numberless 
chance  acquaintances  and  a  few  friends,  and  long 
since  he  had  adopted  the  excellent  practice  of  never 
keeping  a  letter  or  destroying  a  photograph. 

Thus  the  story  of  his  life — it  so  pleased  his  young 
women  friends  to   believe — was   somewhere  to   be 
299 


THE    STAGE    DOOR 

found  carefully  framed,  and  more  or  less  carefully 
autographed,  about  the  little  study  wherein  he  read 
the  morning  papers  and  wrote  and  accepted  invita- 
tions to  dinner.  The  only  difficulty  was  to  find  the 
photograph  among  the  many,  and  the  variety  of  the 
subjects  and  their  constant  kaleidoscopic  change 
from  ostentatious  conspicuousness  to  almost  total 
eclipse  added  no  little  zest  to  the  game.  The  gallery 
of  feminine  beauty  covered  the  walls,  interfered  with 
the  face  of  the  clock  on  the  mantel  over  the  fireplace, 
cramped  his  writing-desk,  and  suffocated  the  big 
centre  table. 

There  were  heavily  framed  photographs  that 
looked  like  mezzotints,  of  women  in  flowered  bro- 
cades, women  who  ruled  modern  society  in  New 
York  and  London  and  Paris;  little  photographs  of 
young  girls  in  simple  dinner  dresses  or  short  duck 
skirts  and  sailor  hats,  who  some  day  would  rule,  too, 
in  their  mothers'  places;  pictures  of  women  of  the 
Paris  stage  and  the  cafe  concerts,  signed  with  the 
most  sincere  expressions  of  regard  and  undying 
affection;  little  and  big  photographs  of  every  kind  of 
the  present  day  Broadway  favorites,  from  skittish 
300 


CAR  MICHAEL'S    CHRISTMAS 

soubrettes  and  smiling  ingenues  to  hollow-eyed  lead- 
ing women  and  ponderous  dramatic  sopranos  from 
the  Metropolitan  Opera  House.  Mixed  with  this  in- 
congruous collection  was  here  and  there  a  picture  of 
a  handsome  Englishwoman,  who  from  her  signature 
of  one  name  and  her  coronet  could  easily  be  detected 
as  a  person  of  title;  and  the  gallery  even  boasted  of 
one  woman  who  would  some  day,  if  she  lived  long 
enough,  wear  a  real  crown. 

On  this  particular  Christmas  eve  Carmichael  came 
into  his  study  and  smilingly  glanced  about  at  the 
array  of  photographic  friends,  and  then,  assuming  a 
more  serious  aspect,  went  into  the  dining-room  and 
looked  over  the  carefully  arranged  table.  His  knowing 
eye  travelled  quickly  over  the  snow-white  damask, 
the  thin  tall  glasses  with  their  tapering  stems,  the 
heavy  silver,  and  the  great  bunch  of  American 
beauties  rising  above  a  massive  loving  cup,  which  he 
himself  had  won  at  golf.  With  a  smile  of  content  the 
young  man  returned  once  more  to  the  study,  lit  a 
cigarette,  and  waited. 

He  did  not  have  long  to  wait;  for  as  the  clock 
chimed  eight  Miss  Rita  Maynard  was  shown  in,  and 
301 


THE    STAGE    DOOR 

Carmichael  greeted  her  with  the  effusion  of  a  very 
old  and  admiring  friend. 

"Am  I  the  very  first?"  she  asked. 

Carmichael  paid  no  heed  to  her  question ;  but  took 
one  of  her  hands  in  each  of  his,  and,  spreading  them 
apart,  looked  with  undisguised  admiration  at  the 
broad  clear  brow,  the  crisp  curling  hair,  the  slanting 
eyes,  the  pink  cheeks  with  their  wonderful  contour, 
the  full  rounded  throat,  and  the  ivory  shoulders. 

"Rita,  you  know,"  he  said  at  last,  dropping  her 
hands,  "it  isn't  right  to  look  like  that.  I  saw  you  the 
other  night  some  place,  and  thought  then  that  you 
had  hung  up  an  entirely  new  record  for  beauty;  but 
— really,  you  know,  if  I  looked  in  my  glass  and  saw 
something  like  that  I  should  feel  just  as  much  pleased 
as  if  I  had  written  a  great  novel  or  composed  a 
national  anthem." 

"How  about  the  dress-maker?"  and  Miss  May- 
nard  glanced  with  a  smile  of  pride  down  at  the 
straight  filmy  white  dress. 

"Beautiful!"  he  said.   "And  of  course  that  all 
helps;  but  really  you  oughtn't  to  go  to  a  bachelor 
apartment  looking  like  that;  it's  not  safe." 
302 


CARMICHAEL'S    CHRISTMAS 

Miss  Maynard  crossed  over  to  the  fireplace  and, 
resting  both  hands  on  the  mantel  shelf,  looked  at  the 
long  row  of  photographs. 

"I'm  not  afraid,"  she  said.  "Indeed,  Harry,  I 
don't  know  any  place  where  one  feels  so  well  chap- 
eroned as  here — dowagers  and  duchesses  all  about 
one,  and  simple  innocent  little  girls  who  ought  to 
be  in  short  frocks  instead  of  ball  dresses;  and  then 
all  these  stage  ladies  who  would  fairly  battle  for 
you  if  you  looked  at  another  woman — that  is,  if 
you  are  willing  to  believe  half  they  write  on  their 
photographs.  What  became  of  the  girl  you  used 
to  have  here  in  front  of  the  clock?  She  was  a  very 
impressive  blonde  as  I  remember  her;  looked  like 
a  young  matron.  The  present  one  seems  to  have 
rather  dark  hair  and  an  angel-child  smirk.  Who  is 
she?" 

Carmichael  went  over  to  the  fireplace  and  took  up 
the  photograph  and,  looking  at  it  carefully,  drew  his 
lips  in  to  a  straight  line.  "That's  a  very  nice  girl,"  he 
said.  "The  features  of  the  blonde  matron  got  harder 
and  harder  every  day.  I  don't  know  whether  it  was 
leaning  against  those  jangling  chimes,  or  just  married 
303 


THE    STAGE    DOOR 

life;  but  I  had  to  sky  her. "He  waved  his  hand  in  the 
direction  of  the  panel  over  the  doorway.  "There  she 
is,  between  Mettie  Carlisle,  the  lady  in  the  bathing 
suit,  and  Lady  Margaret  Donald,  the  British  per- 
sonage with  her  hair  in  a  mop.  And  she'll  stay  there 
too.  Anybody  that  has  to  be  hung  with  a  step-ladder 
has  reached  her  final  niche  in  my  gallery.  She  never 
can  be  a  head-liner  again." 

"What  an  awful  fate!"  Miss  Maynard  sighed.  "It 
was  very  good  of  you  to  ask  us  to-night.  Who  are 
'us'?" 

"Well,  there  are  the  Jim  Hoaglands,  and  the 
Arthur  Lowrys,  and  Ledyard  and  his  wife,  and  the 
Henrys,  and  you  and  I — ten  of  us." 

"My!"  said  Miss  Maynard,  "but  that  crowd  does 
make  one  feel  terribly  unmarried !  Every  time  I  look 
about  the  table  I  shall  feel  that  I've  shirked  my 
responsibilities." 

"Not  at  all;  I  asked  them  on  purpose.  They're  all 
married,  and  naturally  all  play  bridge.  After  dinner 
I'm  going  to  have  two  tables  in  the  library,  and  you 
and  I  can  come  out  here  and  talk  it  over." 

"The  dinner?"  she  asked,  raising  her  eyebrows. 
304 


CARMICHAEL'S    CHRISTMAS 

"Rita,"  he  said,  "if  you  look  like  that  I'm  likely 
to  talk  or  rave  about  anything !" 

"Even  me,  Harry?" 

"Even  you,  Rita,  even  you." 

And  then  the  other  guests  began  to  arrive,  and  for 
the  time  being  Carmichael  saw  little  of  Miss  May- 
nard. 

"This  dinner,"  said  Carmichael  when  they  were 
all  seated  at  table,  "is  the  result  of  a  purely  selfish 
idea  of  mine  to  bring  a  little  of  what  is  called  the 
Christmas  spirit  into  a  poor  bachelor's  apartment. 
I  can't  call  it  a  home  because  any  bachelor  apart- 
ment is  a  disgrace  to  the  name.  I  suppose  you  good 
married  women  would  have  preferred  a  few  unat- 
tached young  men  to  chat  with  you,  and  you  old 
men  would  have  rather  liked  to  sit  between  very 
foolish  young  girls;  but  I  wanted  only  old  friends  and 
the  kind  who  might  leave  a  little  of  the  aroma  of 
home  about  the  place  after  you  had  gone  back  to 
your  Christmas  trees.  Rita's  presence  needs  no  ex- 
cuse. She  is  the  only  jeune  file  here;  first,  because  she 
is  my  oldest  friend,  for  we  played  together  as  children, 
and  second,  because  she  doesn't  play  bridge  now." 
305 


THE    STAGE    DOOR 

"Is  this  a  speech?"  asked  Hoagland.  "Because  if 
it  is  I  should  think  this  woujd  be  the  psychological 
moment  to  drink  somebody's  health — Miss  May- 
nard's  preferred  by  all  means." 

"Ah1  right,"  said  Carmichael;  "but  before  I  con- 
clude my  rhetoric  I  want  to  warn  you  that  you  bridge 
players  had  better  fix  your  points  now,  because  while 
the  dinner  is  to  be  short  it  will  be  rather  rich  and  con- 
ducive to  large  stakes." 

After  this  Carmichael  gave  way  to  the  others,  and 
the  dinner  passed  on  as  happily  as  small,  well-ap- 
pointed dinners  among  friends  are  apt  to  do.  Being 
but  a  small  party,  the  conversation  was  general;  so 
that  every  story,  even  every  new  and  old  joke,  had 
its  listeners,  and  before  the  end  every  one  had  drunk 
jokingly  to  the  good  health  of  every  one  else;  that  is, 
except  in  the  case  of  the  toast  to  Carmichael.  This 
was  proposed  by  Rita  Maynard,  and  perhaps  it  was 
on  account  of  the  wonderful  beauty  of  the  girl,  as 
she  stood  with  her  uplifted  glass,  or  perhaps  it  was 
that  in  her  voice  and  in  her  manner  there  was  a  cer- 
tain note  of  sincerity;  but  whatever  it  was,  the  toast 
was  quite  different  from  the  others. 
306 


CARMICHAEL'S    CHRISTMAS 

* 

"I  propose,"  she  had  said,  with  a  certain  hesita- 
tion in  her  words,  "  that  we  drink  to  the  good  health 
and  happiness  of  our  host,  and  also  to  his  hope  that 
he  may  find  a  little  of  the  Christmas  spirit  to-night 
after  we  have  gone.  For  all  the  kindly  things  he  has 
done  during  his  lifetime,  I  think  he  deserves  it  more 
than  any  one  I  know." 

True  to  the  host's  word,  the  dinner  was  a  short 
one,  and  it  was  not  much  later  than  nine  when,  the 
tables  having  been  set  for  bridge,  the  game  was  well 
under  way,  and  Miss  Maynard  and  Cannichael  had 
returned  to  the  little  study. 

"Did  you  ever  see  the  view  from  these  windows 
on  a  winter  night  like  this?"  Carmichael  asked,  as 
he  pulled  back  the  curtains.  The  girl  crossed  the 
room  to  his  side,  and  for  some  moments  they  stood 
at  the  high  French  windows  silently  looking  out 
on  the  park,  a  great  stretch  of  newly  fallen  snow 
and  the  trees  sheathed  in  ice,  and  every  twig 
and  branch  glistening  in  the  white  glare  of  the 
electric  lights. 

"No,"  she  said,  "I  don't  think  I  ever  have.  You 
know  this  is  the  first  time  I  have  been  here  this  year. 
307 


THE    STAGE    DOOR 

-S 
It's  quite  wonderful,  isn't  it?  Harry,  we  don't  see 

nearly  enough  of  each  other  in  winter." 

"I  know.  It  really  seems  as  if  we  could  get  to- 
gether only  in  summer,  doesn't  it  ?  But  I  think  that 
is  usually  the  way  with  one's  real  friends.  That  was  a 
nice  little  speech  you  made,  Rita,  very  nice."  And  he 
dropped  his  hand  to  his  side  and  gave  hers  a  gentle 
pressure.  "I  suppose,"  he  continued,  "if  you  really 
wanted  to,  you  could  get  the  true  Christmas  spirit  out 
there  in  the  snow?  Even  now  there  may  be  some 
poor  devil  freezing  in  the  park  yonder,  and  you 
wouldn't  have  to  look  very  far  through  the  tenements 
over  on  the  West  Side  to  get  a  chance  to  make  a  hit 
as  Santa  Claus,  would  you  ? " 

Miss  Maynard  walked  over  to  the  fire  and  settled 
back  in  a  deep  easy  chair,  with  the  tips  of  her  satin 
slippers  resting  on  the  fender.  "Is  that  your  idea  of 
the  Christmas  spirit?"  she  asked. 

Carmichael  still  stood  looking  out  at  the  snow  and 
beating  a  slow  tattoo  on  the  window  pane  with  his 
knuckles.  "Oh,  I  don't  know  just  what  I  do  mean. 
I  suppose  the  real  significance  of  the  day  has  all 
gone,  so  far  as  I  am  concerned;  but  it's  left  a  sort  of 
308 


CARMICHAEL'S    CHRISTMAS 

general  desire  to  want  to  do  something  for  somebody 
for  no  particular  reason."  The  young  man  came  over 
and  sat  on  a  low  stool  at  the  girl's  feet,  with  his  back 
to  the  fire. 

"It's  just  one  of  those  bugaboos  that  all  we  bach- 
elors fall  heir  to.  For  some  reason  I  never  can  sepa- 
rate the  idea  of  home  and  Christmas.  You  can  hang 
up  all  the  red-ribboned  wreaths  you  choose,  and  you 
can  dress  your  married  friends'  trees  for  your  married 
friends'  children,  and  you  can  eat  your  married 
friends'  Christmas  dinners;  but  it  isn't  really  Christ- 
mas, because  it  isn't  really  home." 

Miss  Maynard  glanced  about  the  room.  "Some 
people  would  call  this  a  pretty  good  home;  and  you 
seem  to  have  plenty  of  friends,"  she  added,  nodding 
her  head  at  the  long  row  of  photographs  on  the  shelf 
over  the  fireplace. 

"  Those  photographs  ?  They're  a  bluff.  You  know 
what  I  mean,  Rita." 

"Of  course  I  know  what  you  mean,  and  I'm  glad 

of  it.  Sometimes,  Harry,  I'm  only  afraid  you  won't 

feel  that  way  about  things.  I  know  there  are  a  lot  of 

foolish  women  who  make  a  fuss  over  you,  and  I  fear 

309 


THE    STAGE    DOOR 

sometimes  you  can't  stand  it  and  that  it  will  make 
you  different.  Are  all  these  photographs  bluffs?" 

Carmichael  nodded.  "Pretty  much.  You  know 
how  it  is.  Men  affect  women  so  differently.  There 
are  some  men,  generally  very  fine  citizens,  whom 
women  fly  from,  and  there  are  others  they  want  to 
fly  with,  and  still  others  they  want  to  give  their  pho- 
tographs to  and  have  to  tea  when  their  husbands  are 
downtown.  I'm  in  the  last  class.  Then,  I  suppose, 
they  have  heard  of  my  gallery  of  international  beau- 
ties, and  want  to  be  represented." 

From  the  table  at  her  side  Miss  Maynard  picked 
up  a  large  photograph  of  herself  in  a  silver  frame 
and  looked  at  it  quite  impersonally.  "A  bluff?"  she 
asked,  holding  it  up  so  that  Carmichael  could  see  it. 

"No,"  he  said,  "that  is  the  only  picture  that  I 
insist  must  never  be  moved.  It's  a  permanent  quan- 
tity— always  been  in  the  same  place  for  years." 

"Always  in  the  same  place  for  years  ?"  the  girl  re- 
peated slowly.  "Who  changes  the  others,  then,  with 
so  much  taste,  and  creates  all  this  mystery  in  the 
breasts  of  your  young  women  friends?" 

"My  man  does  all  that,"  Carmichael  answered 
310 


CARMICHAEL'S    CHRISTMAS 

promptly,  "and  it's  one  of  his  most  cherished  per- 
quisites. It  doesn't  cost  me  anything,  and  it  gives  him 
a  great  deal  of  pleasure.  He's  terribly  fickle,  though 
— he  features  two  or  three  a  week  some  weeks.  And 
what  he  sees  in  some  of  them  I  cannot  understand, 
and  yet  it  seems  a  little  familiar  for  me  to  ask  him. 
There  was  a  hand-painted  photograph  of  a  Hunga- 
rian dancer  that  he  was  crazy  about.  He  set  her  up 
against  my  ink-well  first,  and  when  I  threw  her  into 
the  waste-paper  basket  he  fished  her  out  and  leaned 
her  against  the  lamp  on  the  table  there.  It  lit  her  up 
like  a  spotlight.  I  hid  her  behind  books  and  in  closets 
and  in  every  out-of-the-way  corner  in  the  place;  but 
the  next  day  there  she  would  be  with  her  tinted  beauty 
presiding  over  the  dining-room  or  the  bath-room  or 
any  old  place,  till  I  had  to  cremate  her  in  the  grate." 

"It's  little  wonder  then,"  said  Miss  Maynard, 
"that  no  one  has  ever  been  able  to  find  the  real  one." 

Carmichael  smiled  and  clasped  his  hands  about 
his  knees.  "Ah!"  he  repeated,  "the  real  one,  eh?" 

The  girl  sat  up  straight  in  her  chair,  and  in  imita- 
tion of  her  host  clasped  her  hands  about  her  knees 
and  then  looked  him  fairly  in  the  eyes.  "Yes,  please 
311 


THE    STAGE    DOOR 

tell  me,  Harry;  I'm  such  an  old  friend.  Which  is  the 
one?" 

Carmichael  smiled  up  at  the  girl,  and  then  slowly 
pulled  himself  to  his  feet.  "You  don't  mind  if  I 
smoke,  do  you?" 

Miss  Maynard  shook  her  head,  and  the  young  man 
crossed  the  room  to  find  a  cigar,  and  then  returned  to 
his  place  at  the  fire.  He  took  a  match-box  from  his 
pocket,  and  as  he  slowly  lit  his  cigar  the  red  light 
from  the  hearth  fell  full  on  his  face. 

"After  all,  Rita,"  he  said,  "what's  the  use?" 

The  girl  impulsively  put  out  her  hand  and  laid  it 
on  his  arm.  "Why,  Harry,"  she  whispered,  "I'm  so 
sorry!  I  didn't  understand.  You  know  we've  seen  so 
little  of  each  other  lately.  I  thought  they  were  all — 
you  know — just  bluffs."  The  girl  tossed  her  head 
toward  the  pictures  over  the  fireplace. 

"Well,"  he  said,  "so  they  are;  the  one  is  the  only 
one  that  isn't  here.  Don't  you  believe,  Rita,  that 
every  author  knows  one  story  that  he  never  writes, 
and  every  painter  one  picture  that  he  would  rather 
starve  than  put  on  canvas  ?  I  do. 

"But  she  used  to  be  here,"  he  went  on.  "There 
312 


CARMICHAEL'S    CHRISTMAS 

was  a  little  picture  of  her  on  the  table  over  there  and 
another  on  the  top  of  the  desk,  and  one  on  the  man- 
tel, and  there  was  a  big  one  on  the  piano.  Wherever 
you  looked  you  could  see  her.  She  was  everywhere; 
at  least,  so  it  seemed  to  me.  And  there  was  another 
one  of  her  on  my  bureau.  She  looked  particularly 
bright  in  that  one,  and  sort  of  piquant  and  very 
cheery,  and  every  morning  when  I  got  up  I  used  to 
say  good-morning  to  her." 

Miss  Maynard  leaned  forward,  resting  her  elbows 
on  her  knees  and  holding  her  chin  between  the  palms 
of  her  hands.  "You  knew  her  very  well,"  she  asked, 
"and  for  a  long  time  ?" 

Carmichael  nodded.  "Yes,  for  quite  a  long  time — 
too  long,  I  suppose." 

"What — what  was  she  like,  Harry?  Do  you 
mind?" 

Carmichael  stared  at  the  fire  and  shook  his  head. 
"No,  of  course  I  don't  mind,"  he  said;  "that  is,  to 
you.  I  like  to  talk  about  her." 

For  some  moments  he  hesitated,  and  then  went  on 
again.  "It's  hard,  in  a  way,  because  it's  so  difficult 
to  give  one  an  idea  of  personality,  and  that's  about 
313 


all  that  really  counts,  isn't  it?  She  was  very  pretty 
too,  in  a  way — her  expression  was  always  changing; 
it  seemed  as  if  it  reflected  every  shade  of  every  thought 
and  idea  she  had,  and  she  certainly  had  wonderful 
thoughts  and  ideas.  I  think  she  had  the  clearest, 
cleanest  grasp  of  things  and  the  broadest  and  most 
sane  philosophy  of  life  of  any  woman  or  man  I  have 
ever  known.  I  suppose  it  was  because  she  h? d  had 
rather  a  hard  time  of  it,  and  experience  had  taught  her 
much  that  many  girls  never  know.  She  had  what  the 
artist  folk  call  temperament,  too,  and  with  her  intel- 
ligence she  ought  to  have  made  the  greatest  actress 
of  our  day." 

"  She  was  on  the  stage  ? "  Miss  Maynard  asked. 

"Yes,  still  is." 

"Isn't  she  clever — I  mean  on  the  stage  ?" 

Carmichael  shook  his  head.  "No,  and  never  will 
be,  I  imagine.  With  all  her  intelligence  and  good 
looks,  she  lacks  the  one  essential  thing — the  trick  the 
actors  call  '  getting  it  over  the  footlights.' " 

"Then  why " 

"Why,"    interrupted    Carmichael— "why  ?    Oh, 
just  because  she  is  independent  and  doesn't  want  to 
314 


CARMICHAEL'S    CHRISTMAS 

admit  failure.  I  don't  think  the  stage  meant  anything 
to  her  but  her  rent  and  board;  but  she  liked  to  pay 
for  those  herself,  and  I  think  the  success  of  other 
women,  with  only  half  her  talents,  annoyed  her  and 
hurt  her  pride,  and  she  had  a  great  deal  of  that." 

For  some  moments  there  was  silence,  while  Car- 
michael  twisted  his  cigar  slowly  between  his  lips  and 
the  girl  still  sat  looking  into  the  fire.  It  was  she  who 
broke  the  silence. 

"Who  were  her  friends  ?" 

"I  don't  know.  I  don't  know  that  she  had  any  real 
friends.  The  first  time  I  met  her  was  at  a  sort  of  Bo- 
hemian supper,  and  I  couldn't  understand  exactly 
why  she  was  there  at  all.  She  worried  me  a  good  deal 
for  a  time;  that  is,  until  I  got  to  know  her.  I  thought 
at  first  that  she  must  be  ignorant  of  their  moral  point 
of  view,  because  I  knew  from  everything  about  her 
that  she  couldn't  possibly  share  it.  And  then  after- 
ward I  talked  to  her  about  it,  and  her  knowledge  was 
just  as  much  greater  than  mine  as  her  charity  was. 
Why,  Rita,  she  saw  people  just  as  we  would  see  things 
through  that  magnifying  glass  over  there  on  the  table. 
For  a  long  time  after  that  she  used  to  come  here  in 
315 


THE    STAGE    DOOR 

the  afternoon  and  sit  at  the  tea-table  and  drink  tea, 
and  I  would  drink  Scotch  and  smoke  and  listen  to 
her.  It  was  wonderful  how  she  accepted  her  share  of 
life  always  with  a  smile  on  her  lips." 

"Still,"  said  the  girl,  "her  share  of  life  was  more  or 
less  what  she  made  it.  After  all,  her  lot  might  have 
been  different;  that  is,  if  I  understand  you — I  mean 
how  much  you  cared." 

"Yes,  it  might  have  been  different,"  Carmichael 
said;  "but  she  chose  her  failure  on  the  stage  and  the 
hall  bedroom  and  the  one  dress  and  the  one  hat.  I 
tell  you,  Rita,  the  hall  bedroom  and  the  one  dress 
and  the  one  hat  have  had  almost  as  much  effect  on 
some  girls'  lives  in  this  town  as  mothers'  prayers. 
What  do  you  think?" 

For  answer  Miss  Maynard  sat  back  in  the  deep 
chair  and,  looking  at  Carmichael,  slowly  shook  her 
head.  "I  think,"  she  said,  "there  must  have  been 
some  other  reason.  Admitting  that  she  had  the  high- 
est motives  in  the  world,  it  is  difficult  to  understand 
why  she  should  have  chosen  the  hall  bedroom  instead 
of  all  this."  The  girl  glanced  about  the  room  and  then 
back  at  Carmichael.  "Of  course,  Harry,  if  you  were 

316 


CARMICHAEL'S    CHRISTMAS 

an  ogre,  it  would  have  been  different;  but  you  are  not 
an  ogre.  In  fact,  I  understand  all  mothers  and  most 
daughters  call  you  eligible.  It  really  seems  as  if  she 
might  have  brought  herself  to  care  a  little." 

"Perhaps,"  said  Carmichael,  slowly  weighing  his 
words,  "perhaps  she  cared  too  much.  She  had  an 
absurd  idea  of  the  world  that  you,  for  instance,  be- 
long to;  probably  because  she  knew  so  little  of  it.  I 
think  you  represented  to  her  everything  that  a  woman 
ought  to  be — certainly  the  type  of  woman  I  ought  to 
marry." 

"I?" 

"Yes,  you.  I  had  talked  to  her  a  lot  about  you, 
and " 

"And  the  one  photograph,"  Miss  Maynard  inter- 
rupted, "that  was  never  moved  ?" 

Carmichael  nodded.  "I  suppose  so.  She  said  that 
her  visits  here  were  nothing  but  a  bundle  of  faded 
letters  tied  with  a  ribbon  and  hid  away  in  the  bureau 
drawer  at  the  actors'  boarding-house — the  kind  of 
letters  that  a  woman  marks  'Burn  without  opening,' 
and  only  reads  when  her  husband  is  downtown  and 
she  is  discouraged  and  wants  to  bring  on  a  good  cry." 
317 


THE    S  T  A  G  E    DOOR 

"And  what  was  the  end  of  all  this  ?  There's  always 
an  end." 

"The  end  was  that  she  was  very  ill,  and  I  did  every- 
thing that  a  man  who  has  a  certain  amount  of  brains 
and  a  good  deal  of  money  could  do  for  a  woman.  The 
fact  that  she  was  sick  made  it  possible,  where  it 
wasn't  possible  before." 

"And  then  ?"  the  girl  asked. 

"And  then  I  found  out,  just  as  every  man  finds 
out  when  a  woman  he  cares  for  is  really  ill:  it's  the 
only  perfectly  sure  test  I  know.  And  when  she  was 
quite  well  and  at  work  again,  and  her  pride  had  come 
back,  I  asked  her  to  tea,  and  after  tea,  I  told  her  my 
discovery.  It  was  a  very  important  one  to  me;  but  not 
to  her,  it  seemed.  Then  I  collected  all  her  photo- 
graphs, and  we  sat  here  just  as  you  and  I  are  sitting 
here  to-night,  and  one  by  one  I  tore  the  photographs 
in  two  and  put  them  in  the  fire  and  they  burned  up. 
I  told  her  that  I  was  a  strong  man,  and  liked  a  fight; 
but  I  knew  when  I  was  beaten :  that  it  was  a  case  of 
marrying  me,  or  saying  good-by.  That  evening  I  went 
out  to  my  cottage  at  Rye,  where  I  made  the  caretaker 
cook  for  a  friend  and  me  for  two  days.  For  those  two 
318 


CARMICHAEL'S    CHRISTMAS 

days  I  did  exactly  what  I  had  always  read  about  men 
doing  in  novels  and  what  I  had  seen  them  do  on  the 
stage.  I  tramped  up  and  down  and  talked  and  raved 
about  her  to  the  man  whom  I  had  brought  along  for 
the  purpose,  and  he  was  just  as  sympathetic  as  I  knew 
he  was  going  to  be.  At  the  end  of  two  days  I  had  ex- 
hausted myself  and  my  friend,  and  I  came  back  here 
to  the  blank  spaces  where  her  photographs  used  to  be 
and  to  the  empty  wicker  chair  where  she  used  to  sit. 

"That  is  all  a  year  ago,  and  since  those  two  days 
until  to-night  I  have  never  spoken  to  any  one  about 
her;  but  the  blank  spaces  are  still  blank  spaces,  al- 
though they  have  been  filled  with  many  faces;  and 
the  spirit  of  home  which  she  brought  here  in  those 
days  is  just  as  lacking  to  me  as  if  the  rooms  were 
stripped  and  the  packing  boxes  were  standing  in  the 
hallway." 

"And  you  have  never  seen  her  since?" 

"Yes.  Several  times  on  the  stage,  and  once,  just 
the  other  day,  I  met  her  in  the  street." 

"Did  you  speak  to  her?" 

"No;  but  I  wanted  to  take  her  in  my  arms  and 
carry  her  away — anywhere.  There  was  such  a  tired 
319 


THE    STAGE    DOOR 

look  in  her  eyes,  and  her  face  was  so  peaked,  and 
she  seemed  so  terribly  worn  and  poor." 

"And  you  didn't  speak  to  her?" 

"No;  she  would  have  preferred  it  that  way.  I  know 
her  so  well,  Rita." 

"Perhaps — one  never  knows.  Women  have  been 
known  to  change." 

Carmichael  looked  up  and  smilingly  shook  his 
head.  "Not  this  woman,"  he  said. 

"Is  she  playing  here  now?"  Miss  Maynard  asked. 
"I  suppose  it's  absurdly  curious  of  me;  but  I  should 
like  to  see  her  after  all  that  you  have  told  me." 

"Yes,  she's  playing  down  the  street  at  the  Majes- 
tic. Her  name  is  Alice  Yorke,  and  she  plays  the  part 
of  a  younger  sister,  and  her  performance  is  just  as 
bad  as  the  play.  I've  seen  it  a  dozen  times  or  more, 
and  I  ought  to  know.  It's  terrible." 

Miss  Maynard  smiled  cheerfully.  "Come  on, 
Harry.  I  hear  the  others  coming,  and  I  must  be  going 
home;  it's  nearly  eleven  o'clock  now.  Are  you  going 
to  the  club  or  any  place  that  I  can  drop  you  ?" 

"No,  thank  you,  Rita,"  he  said.  "I  think  I'll  read 
a  bit  and  go  to  bed." 

320 


CARMICHAEL'S    CHRISTMAS 

They  were  joined  a  moment  later  by  the  bridge 
players,  who  impressively  thanked  Carmichael  for 
his  true  hospitality  in  leaving  them  so  uninterrupt- 
edly alone  to  their  game.  And  then  they  told  him 
individually  and  in  chorus  how  much  they  had  en- 
joyed the  dinner,  and  every  one  bade  every  one  else 
good-night  and  exchanged  the  best  of  wishes  for  a 
merry  Christmas. 

For  just  a  moment  after  the  others  had  left  the 
room  Rita  Maynard  lingered  while  Carmichael 
arranged  her  cloak  for  her. 

"Thank  you  so  much,  Harry!"  she  whispered. 
"It  was  such  a  good  friendly  talk.  Don't  think  too 
long  of  the  blank  spaces.  Good-night  and  good  luck." 

Five  minutes  later  Miss  Maynard 's  automobile 
drew  up  at  the  stage  door  of  the  Majestic  Theatre, 
and  the  door-keeper  was  so  overcome  by  the  radiant 
beauty  of  the  young  woman  and  the  richness  of  her 
mantle  that  for  once  he  forgot  to  be  churlish  and 
promptly  led  her  to  the  deserted  stage. 

The  performance  had  been  over  for  some  little 
time;  but  the  door-keeper  was  quite  sure  that  Miss 
Yorke  was  still  in  her  dressing-room.  In  any  case  he 
321 


THE    STAGE    DOOR 

would  make  sure,  and  so  he  climbed  the  spiral  stair- 
case which  led  to  the  dressing-rooms  and  told  Miss 
Yorke  that  the  most  beautiful  "society"  lady  he  had 
ever  seen  was  waiting  for  her  with  an  automobile. 

The  two  women  met  on  the  dimly  lit  stage,  and* 
perhaps  it  was  from  the  unusual  surroundings,  or 
for  one  reason  or  another,  it  was  only  the  visitor  who 
showed  any  signs  of  embarrassment. 

"I'm  Miss  Maynard,"  she  began,  "and  my  only 
excuse  for  coming  to  see  you  to-night  is  that  I  am 
a  very  old  friend  of  a  friend  of  yours — Harry  Car- 
michael." 

Miss  Yorke  smiled  brightly  and  put  out  her  hand. 
"I  am  very  glad  to  meet  you,"  she  said.  "Mr.  Car- 
michael  is,  or  was,  a  great  friend  of  mine." 

For  a  moment  the  actress  waited,  while  Miss 
Maynard  mentally  groped  about  for  the  words  with 
which  to  explain  her  mission.  The  poise  of  the  girl, 
and  something  in  the  ease  of  her  manner  and  the 
frankness  with  which  she  met  her  glance,  was  a  little 
confusing. 

"Have  you  anything  to  do — now,  I  mean?"  Miss 
Maynard  asked. 

322 


CARMICHAEL'S    CHRISTMAS 

Miss  Yorke  shook  her  head.  "Nothing,"  she  said. 

"Well,  if  you  don't  think  it  too  great  an  imperti- 
nence, I'm  going  to  ask  you  if  you  won't  take  a  little 
drive  with  me  through  the  park.  I  want  to  say  some- 
thing to  you  so  much,  and  I  could  say  it  so  much 
better  to  you  there  than  here." 

"I'd  love  to  go,"  Miss  Yorke  said,  and  smilingly 
glanced  about  at  the  heavy  set-pieces,  the  rows  of  flat 
scenes  piled  up  against  rough  brick  walls,  and  the 
watch  light  with  its  single  gas  flame  burning  dimly  in 
the  centre  of  the  stage.  "I'm  afraid  it  is  rather  con- 
fusing to  you  here,"  she  added.  "Shall  we  go  ?" 

Just  what  was  said  between  the  two  girls  in  Miss 
Maynard's  automobile  that  night  as  they  raced  over 
the  snow-covered  roads  of  the  deserted  park  has 
never  been,  and  in  all  probability  never  will  be, 
known.  And  the  reason  for  this  no  doubt  is  that 
although  until  that  night  they  had  been  strangers, 
each  girl  must  have  told  the  other  something  that 
heretofore  she  had  kept  in  her  own  heart  and  had 
never  told  to  any  one.  But,  be  that  as  it  may,  at  least 
the  result  of  that  talk  is  now  well  known. 

At  the  hour  when  Santa  Claus  was  at  his  busiest, 
323 


THE    STAGE    DOOR 

filling  stockings  with  candy  and  toys  and  hanging 
gold  stars  and  little  pink  cupids  on  Christmas  trees 
all  over  the  big  city,  Rita  Maynard's  automobile 
stopped  once  more  that  night  at  the  home  of  Henry 
Carmichael.  The  two  girls  went  up  to  the  floor  of 
his  apartment  together,  and  when  Carmichael  him- 
self came  to  the  door  in  answer  to  their  ring  he  found 
them  standing  together,  with  Rita  Maynard's  arm 
about  the  shoulders  of  her  new  friend. 

For  just  a  moment  Carmichael  stood  in  the  door- 
way a  little  dazed;  and  then  he  understood,  and  held 
out  his  arms  to  her. 

"Harry,"  Miss  Maynard  said,  "I've  brought  you 
a  little  of  the  Christmas  spirit  you  were  talking 
about."  And  then  she  gently  urged  Alice  Yorke 
toward  the  doorway.  "I'll  wait  for  you  in  the  car," 
she  added;  "don't  be  long." 

When  Rita  Maynard  had  left  Miss  Yorke  at  the 
actors'  boarding-house  on  the  West  Side,  and  her  work 
was  done,  and  well  done,  she  started  for  her  own 
home.  Her  cloak  drawn  tightly  about  her  throat  and 
shoulders,  her  arms  folded,  her  head  resting  against 
324 


CARMICHAEL'S    CHRISTMAS 

the  cushions,  the  girl  with  wide-open  eyes  stared  at 
the  design  of  the  brocade  with  which  the  top  of  the 
automobile  was  lined. 

It  was  just  midnight  when  she  reached  her  des- 
tination, and  the  bells  were  ringing  out  the  news 
which  has  meant  so  many  things  to  so  many  people 
for  so  many  years.  She  got  out  of  the  automobile,  and 
had  almost  reached  the  steps  of  her  home,  when  the 
clamor  of  the  bells  seemed  to  bring  her  back  to  her- 
self and  her  surroundings,  and  she  turned  toward 
the  chauffeur. 

"Good-night,  Donald,"  she  said,  "and  a  Merry 
Christmas  to  you." 

The  chauffeur  smiled  broadly,  nodded,  and 
touched  his  cap.  "Thank  you,  miss,"  he  said;  "and 
a  Merry  Christmas  to  you  too." 

For  a  moment  the  girl  hesitated  while  the  two 
words  of  thanks  which  she  would  have  spoken  died 
in  her  throat,  and  with  uncertain  steps  and  misty 
eyes  she  went  slowly  on  up  the  steps  of  her  home. 


325 


THE    ROAD    TO    GLORY 


THE    ROAD    TO    GLORY 

'C^OME  in!"  said  the  Junior  Partner. 

The  door  to  the  private  office  opened,  and  a  young 
girl  stood  silhouetted  against  the  glare  of  yellow  light 
of  the  big  room  outside. 

"Did  you  wish  to  see  me,  Mr.  Grey?"  the  girl 
asked. 

The  Junior  Partner  glanced  up  from  the  mass  of 
papers  lying  on  his  desk.  "No,  Miss  Lorelle;  I 
wanted  Miss  Agnew." 

"I'm  afraid  she's  gone  home;  it's  after  six  o'clock." 

"Of  course,  of  course,  I  quite  forgot,"  Grey  said. 
"I  wanted  her  to  take  a  letter  for  me.  You  are  not 
a  stenographer,  are  you?" 

She  smiled  and  shook  her  head.  "I'm  afraid  not. 
Could  I  write  it  in  long  hand  ?" 

The  Junior  Partner  turned  to  his  papers.  "No, 
thank  you,"  he  said.  "I  suppose  every  one  has 
gone?" 

329 


THE    STAGE    DOOR 

"Yes,  every  one."  The  girl  closed  the  door  softly 
and  returned  to  her  desk. 

The  Junior  Partner  signed  the  first  few  letters  of 
the  many  that  lay  before  him,  and  then  pushed  the 
remainder  petulantly  away  from  him.  He  swung 
slowly  about  on  his  swivel  chair  and  looked  with 
unseeing  eyes  at  the  walls  of  the  little  room.  It  was 
an  unusually  attractive  room  for  an  office.  Above  the 
walnut  wainscoting  there  hung  some  fine  old  por- 
traits of  the  founders  of  the  firm,  and  the  rest  of  the 
room  fairly  lived  up  to  the  dignity  of  the  old  gentle- 
men in  the  very  high  collars  and  the  ruffled  shirt 
fronts.  The  dark-green  curtains,  which  were  drawn, 
were  of  heavy  brocade,  and  the  deep  leather  chairs 
and  sofa  were  of  substantial  build  and  almost  luxu- 
rious in  their  comfort.  The  light  from  a  coal  grate 
glowed  on  andirons  and  a  fender  of  highly  polished 
brass,  and  beyond  threw  flickering  shadows  across  a 
rug  of  much  softness  and  great  warmth  of  color.  The 
fire-light,  and  the  desk  lamp  of  one  lonely  shaded 
globe,  made  but  a  feeble  effort  toward  brightening 
the  dull  surroundings. 

The  Junior  Partner  swung  clear  around  on  his 
330 


THE    ROAD    TO     GLORY 

chair,  touched  an  electric  bell  on  the  desk  for  the 
second  time  that  evening,  and  then,  with  sudden 
dexterity,  took  his  stand  in  front  of  the  fireplace. 
"Come  in,  Miss  Lorelle!"  he  called. 

The  young  girl  came  in  and  waited  in  the  centre 
of  the  room,  standing  fairly  in  the  light  of  the  fire. 
The  Junior  Partner  glanced  at  the  black  dress, 
closely  fitted  to  the  tall,  lithe  figure;  at  the  white 
paper  cuff  pinned  on  her  writing  arm;  and  at  the 
lace  collar  about  the  full  white  throat.  Without 
meeting  her  eyes,  he  motioned  to  one  of  two  large 
arm-chairs  that  stood  on  each  side  of  the  hearth. 
"Won't  you  sit  down  ?"  he  said. 

The  girl  inclined  her  head  and  moved  with  a 
grace  of  great  charm  until  she  found  herself  in  front 
of  the  chair.  Then  she  suddenly  seemed  to  become 
conscious  of  the  fact  that  to  sit  about  a  fire  with  a 
member  of  the  firm  of  which  she  was  a  humble  em- 
ployee was  an  entirely  new  and  rather  humorous 
sensation.  She  cast  one  glance  of  protest  at  the 
Junior  Partner,  and  then,  clumsily  enough,  sat 
down,  hunched  up  on  the  edge  of  the  big  arm-chair. 

The  Junior  Partner  sat  far  back  in  his  chair 
331 


THE    STAGE    DOOR 

opposite  her,  crossed  his  legs,  and  for  a  few  moments 
gazed  reflectively  into  the  fireplace.  He  was  ac- 
counted a  very  clever  business  man;  but  he  was  also 
a  very  young  man,  and  so  he  approached  a  new 
situation  with  a  manner  which  was  always  inten- 
tionally deliberate  and  often  unconvincing. 

"Miss  Lorelle,"  he  said  slowly,  "I  think  I  had  the 
pleasure  of  seeing  you  the  other  night  in  the  palace 
scene  of  'The  King's  Fool.'  Am  I  right?" 

The  girl  did  not  look  up,  but  clasped  her  hands 
slowly  about  her  right  knee,  and  interlaced  the 
fingers  tightly  together.  "Yes,"  she  said.  "I  won- 
dered at  the  time  if  you  had  recognized  me."  For  a 
few  moments  she  groped  about  for  something  more 
to  say,  while  the  young  man  gazed  steadfastly  at  the 
burning  coals.  "Did  you  like  the  play,  Mr.  Grey?" 
she  asked  at  last. 

"I  liked  you,"  Grey  said. 

Miss  Lorelle  smiled  and  glanced  at  him  from  the 
corner  of  her  eye.  "I  don't  quite  understand — I  only 
walk  on  in  that  one  scene.  An  extra  girl  could  hardly 
impress  one,  I  should  think,  very  much  one  way  or 
the  other." 

332 


THE    ROAD    TO     GLORY 

"Not  at  all,"  said  the  Junior  Partner.  "It  was 
because  you  stood  out  so  easily  from  the  rest  and  with 
so  little  opportunity,  that  I  liked  you.  And  then  be- 
sides you  had  a  few  lines  which  I  thought  you  read 
uncommonly  well." 

"That's  right,  I  did  have  lines  that  night.  They 
don't  really  belong  to  me,  but  the  girl  who  usually 
has  them  was  away." 

Once  more  the  conversation  flagged  even  more 
ominously  than  before.  This  time  it  was  the  man 
who  broke  the  silence.  "Did  you  ever  seriously  con- 
sider going  on  the  stage  ?" 

The  girl  unclasped  her  hands  and  slid  back  into 
the  depths  of  the  big  leather  chair.  The  glow  from 
the  coals  fell  full  on  the  wavy  mass  of  hair  brushed 
back  clear  from  the  broad  white  forehead,  on  the 
oval  face,  on  the  slanting  eyes,  the  delicately  pen- 
cilled eyebrows,  the  heavy  lashes,  and  the  finely 
cut  nose  and  chin-  A  faint  flush  rose  above  the 
swelling  throat  and  spread  over  the  cheeks  and 
temples.  "Yes,  sometimes  I  have  thought  I  should 
like  to  go  on  the  stage,"  she  said.  "I  mean  regularly. 
Why?" 

333 


THE    STAGE    DOOR 

"You  have  never  been  on  the  stage — regularly?" 

She  put  one  hand  over  her  eyes,  as  if  to  shut  out 
the  firelight.  Grey  sat  forward  and,  resting  his  el- 
bows on  his  knees,  held  his  chin  tightly  between  the 
palms  of  his  hands.  It  was  some  moments  before  the 
girl  spoke.  When  she  did  her  voice  sounded  metallic 
and  tired. 

"Yes,"  she  said  at  last.  "I  was  on  the  stage  once. 
When  I  first  came  to  New  York  I  went  to  a  dramatic 
school,  more  for  amusement  than  anything  else. 
Then  one  day  my  uncle,  who  had  always  supported 
me,  told  me  that  he  had  lost  a  lot  of  money,  and  the 
remittances  must  stop,  and  that  I  must  go  back  to  the 
little  town  where  he  lived,  or  look  out  for  myself. 
Well,  I  would  rather  have  died  than  go  back,  and  so 
I  got  an  engagement  with  a  very  bad  company.  It  was 
a  road  company — we  never  played  near  New  York. 
We  went  to  pieces  in  Duluth,  and  had  to  beat  and 
beg  our  way  back.  It  was  not  a  nice  experience." 

"And  then?"  asked  the  Junior  Partner. 

"Then  ?  Oh,  then  I  got  letters  from  my  uncle,  who 
still  had  some  business  connections  in  New  York 
and  I  worked  in  two  or  three  offices,  and — and  finally 
334 


THE    ROAD    TO     GLORY 

I  came  here.  I  didn't  tell  Mr.  Wiley  anything  about 
my  theatrical  experience  when  he  engaged  me." 

"Why?"  interrupted  Grey. 

"Why?  You  know  the  reputation  of  this  office — 
every  girl  that  comes  here  is  supposed  to  vouch  for 
both  her  great-grandmothers.  To  get  in  here  is  sup- 
posed to  be  a  sort  of  a  decoration  in  my  world." 

"But  you  are  not  happy  here.  Whenever  I  see  you 
at  your  desk  you  always  seem  to  be  dreaming  about 
something.  Why,  even  to-night  you  see  how  late  you 
are  with  your  work;  and  you  know  it  is  the  same 
nearly  every  night,  don't  you  ?" 

She  took  her  hand  from  before  her  face  and 
nodded  gravely  into  the  grave  eyes  of  the  young 
man.  "Yes,"  she  said,  "I  know.  It  does  seem  as  if 
I  were  always  late." 

"You'll  pardon  me,  Miss  Lorelle,"  Grey  went  on; 
"but  it  seems  to  me  that  your  temperament  is  essen- 
tially suited  to  the  life  of  an  actress,  and  not  to  your 
present  work.  Your  voice,  your  face,  your  figure,  are 
all  assets,  if  you  will  allow  me  to  say  so,  which  I 
think  are  lost  in  an  office  such  as  this.  You  have  alto- 
gether too  much  imagination — a  clerk  should  be  a 
335 


THE    STAGE    DOOR 

machine.  I  am  going  to  ask  you  a  plain  question.  Why 
remain  a  bad  clerk  at  fifteen  dollars  a  week,  when 
you  might  be  a  good  actress  at  many  times  that  sum  ? 
This  life  is  well  enough  for  these  other  girls  here; 
but  not  for  you — not  for  you." 

The  girl  slowly  clasped  her  hands  behind  her  head 
and  looked  wide  eyed  at  the  Junior  Partner.  "I  sup- 
pose it  all  means,"  she  whispered,  "that  I  must  go — • 
that  this  is  really  a  polite  way  of  telling  me  that  you 
don't  want  me  any  longer." 

The  young  man  rose  and  for  a  moment  stood  with 
his  back  to  her,  resting  his  hands  on  the  mantel 
shelf  over  the  fire.  He  was  a  very  young  man.  "Be- 
lieve me,  Miss  Lorelle,"  he  said,  turning  to  her  again. 
"I  am  speaking  for  your  best  interests  as  well  as  our 
own.  I'm  sure  I  could  get  you  an  engagement.  I  know 
at  least  one  manager  who  would  be  only  too  glad  to 
oblige  me.  I  want  to  be  fair  to  you,  Miss  Lorelle;  in- 
deed I  do.  It  has  always  been  a  tradition  of  this  firm 
to  treat  its  people  with  every  consideration — with 
every  kindness  that  was  possible." 

For  a  brief  moment  she  pressed  her  hand  slowly 
against  her  eyes,  and  then  took  it  quickly  away 
336 


THE    ROAD    TO     GLORY 

again,  and  slid  out  of  the  deep  chair.  "Oh,  I 
know,"  she  said,  standing.  "You  are  kind — very 
kind  to  your  people — you  even  mean  to  be  kind  to 
me.  Good-night." 

The  Junior  Partner  held  out  his  hand.  "You 
won't  be  leaving  us  for  some  days,  I  hope." 

Miss  Lorelle  brushed  the  tips  of  her  fingers  across 
his  open  palm. 

"Yes,  to-night.  Miss  Crawford  can  do  my  work. 
I'll  explain  everything  to  her  in  a  letter.  I  wouldn't 
care  to  see  the  girls  again." 

"And  you  won't  let  me  write  to  this  manager?" 

The  girl  had  regained  her  habitual  poise,  and, 
turning  at  the  doorway,  smiled  back  at  him,  and 
shook  her  head.  "I'm  afraid  you're  a  little  too  young 
and  too  good  looking  and  much  too  rich  to  start  a 
girl  on  the  stage — that  is,  for  the  girl's  good.  Good- 
night— and  good-by  to  you,  Mr.  Grey." 

The  door  closed  sharply  behind  her,  and  the 
Junior  Partner  was  left  alone  to  finish  his  letters. 
Half  an  hour  later  when  he  passed  through  the  big 
office  room  he  saw  her  still  working.  He  turned  and 
gravely  bowed  in  her  direction;  but  the  only  answer 
337 


THE    STAGE    DOOR 

was  the  scratching  of  the  girl's  pen  over  the  unbal- 
anced journal. 

The  morning  after  the  leave  taking  of  Miss  Lorelle 
six  of  the  seven  young  women  who  worked  in  the 
large  room  arrived  promptly  at  nine  o'clock,  and 
were  proceeding  with  much  deliberation  to  remove 
their  hats  and  wraps,  when  they  were  suddenly 
startled  by  a  cry  of  consternation  from  the  direction 
of  Miss  Crawford's  desk.  The  girls  promptly  gath- 
ered about  their  fellow-clerk  and  gazed  anxiously 
on  the  letter  which  she  held  in  her  hand,  and  which 
without  doubt  had  been  the  cause  of  the  excitement. 
With  much  emphasis  Miss  Crawford  read  the  docu- 
ment aloud  to  her  fellow- workers.  It  was  a  very 
simple  letter,  saying  good-by  to  six  young  women 
whom  during  working  hours  Miss  Lorelle  had  known 
rather  intimately,  and  of  whom  in  her  own  way  she 
was  very  fond.  When  the  signature  of  the  letter  had 
been  read  with  proper  emphasis,  the  five  young 
women  who  had  been  standing  about  Miss  Craw- 
ford's desk  gazed  at  each  other  with  wide-eyed 
wonder.  The  idea  of  an  employee  leaving  the  firm  of 
338 


THE    ROAD    TO     GLORY 

Wiley,  Grey   &  Co.  overnight  was  without  prece- 
dent, and  almost  criminal  in  its  suddenness. 

Anna  Wilson,  a  black-eyed  girl  in  short  dresses, 
who  was  really  a  girl  office  boy,  and  much  the 
youngest  of  the  group,  made  slight  effort  to  control 
her  feelings,  and,  burying  her  head  in  her  arms  on 
Miss  Crawford's  desk,  burst  into  violent  weeping. 
It  was  the  first  break  she  had  ever  experienced  in 
an  official  family,  and  besides  Miss  Lorelle  had 
always  treated  her  with  great  kindness  and  just  as 
if  she  were  not  a  very  young  girl  but  a  woman  like 
the  rest  of  them.  Perhaps  it  was  shock  or  perhaps 
it  was  that  the  other  girl  clerks  shared  the  feeling  of 
Miss  Wilson,  weeping  on  the  desk,  and  had  a  better 
control  over  the  lumps  that  were  rising  and  falling 
in  their  throats;  but  in  any  case  there  were  many 
moments  of  silence  that  followed  the  reading  of  the 
letter.  Each  of  these  girls  knew  that  Miss  Lorelle 
was  not  a  good  clerk,  each  of  them  knew  also  that 
she  individually  had  helped  her  constantly  with 
her  work,  and  had  done  her  best  to  shield  her  de- 
ficiencies from  the  ever-watchful  eyes  of  the  Jun- 
ior Partner.  And  yet  at  that  moment  they  would 
339 


THE, STAGE    DOOR 

have  given  up  many  hours  of  their  own  time  to  have 
seen  her  back  at  her  old  desk.  Perhaps  it  was  the 
thoughtfulness  of  the  girl  who  had  left  them  that  in- 
spired these  thoughts,  or  perhaps  it  was  her  flower- 
like  beauty,  or  perhaps  it  was  the  unspoken  thought 
that  she  was  just  a  little  different  from  themselves — of 
a  slightly  different  mould  and  of  just  a  trifle  finer  clay. 
Be  that  as  it  may,  any  further  discussion  of  the 
situation  was  rendered  impossible  by  the  appear- 
ance of  the  Junior  Partner.  For  a  moment  he  stopped 
at  the  desk  of  Miss  Crawford  and  arranged  for  a  fair 
division  of  Miss  Lorelle's  work  until  her  successor 
should  have  been  selected.  With  these  slight  changes, 
the  work  of  the  office,  at  least  outwardly,  continued 
on  its  even  way. 

It  is  probable  that  had  Miss  Lorelle  returned  to 
the  daily  grind  of  desk  work  in  another  quarter  of 
the  city,  or  had  she  pursued  some  equally  unosten- 
tatious calling,  the  record  of  her  recent  business  life 
would  have  fast  faded  into  a  pleasant  memory.  But 
Miss  Lorelle,  after  some  consideration,  returned  to  the 
stage,  not  so  much  on  account  of  the  advice  of  her 
340 


THE    ROAD    TO     GLORY 

late  employer,  as  because  it  seemed  to  be  the  course 
that  offered  the  least  resistance.  With  her  knowledge 
of  the  possibilities  of  the  profession,  she  turned  to  the 
agencies,  and  frequented  them  with  such  persistency 
that  in  little  more  than  a  week  she  was  on  her  way  to 
Denver  to  fill  a  minor  position  in  a  summer  stock 
company.  For  two  months  she  played  twice  a  day 
and  rehearsed  and  the  best  part  of  the  remainder  of 
each  twenty-four  hours  worked  on  her  wardrobe.  It 
was  very  hard  work,  but  at  least  it  taught  her  ease 
and  the  rudiments  of  acting. 

Late  in  August,  when  a  Chicago  manager  "dis- 
covered" her,  he  found  her  a  little  pale  and  tired — 
quite  tired  enough  to  abandon  any  immediate  hope 
she  may  have  had  of  becoming  a  dramatic  star.  He 
wanted  her  for  a  small  part  in  a  musical  comedy — 
that  is,  if  she  could  sing  and  dance — and  as  she 
could  do  a  little  of  both,  she  was  promptly  engaged. 
In  a  few  weeks  she  was  at  work  again;  but  after  her 
experience  with  the  stock  company  it  seemed  more 
like  play.  With  her  one  song,  which  happened  to  be 
a  good  song,  she  attained  a  certain  amount  of 
success. 

341 


THE    STAGE    DOOR 

But  it  was,  after  all,  her  beauty  that  scored  and 
that  gave  her  a  probably  unwarranted  local  reputa- 
tion. Paragraphs  occasionally  appeared  about  her  in 
the  Chicago  newspapers,  and  in  her  really  gorgeous 
stage  dresses  and  her  imitation  pearls  she  was  con- 
stantly in  demand  for  "art  studies"  by  the  local 
photographers.  In  time  these  pictures  appeared  in 
the  magazines,  and  were  usually  accompanied  by 
rather  startling  tales  of  the  past  and  present  of  this 
new  and  extremely  beautiful  addition  to  the  Ameri- 
can stage.  She  had  confidingly  placed  herself  in  the 
hands  of  her  press  agent  and  he  had  supplied  her 
lavishly  with  an  imaginary  private  electric  brougham, 
a  French  touring  car,  and  jewels  that  would  make 
a  rajah  fairly  wince  with  envy. 

During  the  winter  months  these  pictures  and  the 
wonder  tales  of  the  new  spendthrift  beauty  reached 
New  York  and  eventually  found  their  way  into  the 
big  room  of  Wiley,  Grey  &  Co.,  where  they  were 
welcomed  with  sighs  of  delight  and  without  an  iota 
of  doubt  as  to  their  absolute  truthfulness.  Notwith- 
standing the  somewhat  decollete  appearance  of  Miss 
Lorelle  in  the  photographic  studies,  she  became  at 
342 


THE    ROAD    TO     GLORY 

once  the  patron  saint  of  the  office  where  she  had  so 
recently  been  a  humble  employe.  Every  desk  con- 
tained one  or  more  of  her  pictures,  and  every  morsel 
of  news  as  to  her  last  escapade  was  read  aloud  to 
wide-eyed  wonderment.  Her  past  life  in  the  big  room 
was  gone  over  with  wonderful  minuteness,  and  her 
every  simple  kindness  was  developed  into  a  deed  of 
splendid  heroism.  And  through  all  this  spirit  of  loy- 
alty and  admiration  there  was  no  word  nor  thought  of 
envy.  One  of  their  own  had  one  night  passed  out  of 
their  workaday,  monotonous  life  and  had  suddenly 
appeared  as  a  brilliant  light  in  a  world  of  which  these 
girls  could  only  read  and  of  which  they  could  really 
know  but  little.  In  the  natural  course  of  events  it  was 
quite  sure  that  some  day  she  must  return  to  New 
York,  and  the  seven  young  women  waited  patiently 
for  the  day. 

This  day  came  early  in  June.  It  was  the  first  of 
the  summer  musical  productions,  and  the  New  York 
first-nighters  awaited  the  event  with  no  unusual  dis- 
play of  interest.  Miss  Lorelle  had  been  featured  in  the 
newspapers  to  the  exact  limit  that  the  woman  star  and 
the  comedian  would  permit,  and  it  must  be  said  that 
343 


THE    STAGE    DOOR 

the  audience,  when  it  saw  her,  liked  this  new  girl  from 
the  West.  They  liked  her  almost  perfect  beauty,  and 
they  liked  the  way  she  moved  about  the  stage,  and 
a  certain  conviction  with  which  she  read  her  lines, 
and,  above  all  else,  the  unusual  intelligence  which  she 
used  in  singing  her  one  song.  It  was  very  far  from  an 
ovation;  but  her  reception  was  out  of  all  proportion 
to  the  part  she  played,  and  the  critics,  who  like  the 
unusual,  said  as  much  in  their  reviews  the  morning 
following.  With  one  accord  they  dismissed  the  light 
voice  with  a  few  words,  and  stopped  to  praise  at 
some  length  the  beauty  and  the  resources  of  this 
young  girl  who  had  found  flowers  where  the  authors 
had  planted  only  weeds. 

It  is  probable  that  at  no  one  place  in  New  York 
were  these  notices  so  eagerly  read,  or  so  much  discussed, 
as  in  the  big  room  of  Wiley,  Grey  &  Co.  The  seven 
girls  laughed  and  rejoiced  over  them,  perhaps  even 
cried  a  little  over  them,  and  mentally  agreed  never 
to  buy  one  paper  again  because  it  fell  far  below  the 
others  in  praising  their  favorite.  Individually  they 
had  each  sent  her  a  telegram,  and  collectively  they 
were  represented  by  a  large  bunch  of  roses,  the  cost 
344 


THE    ROAD    TO     GLORY 

of  which  was  out  of  all  proportion  to  their  weekly 
salaries.  Exactly  how  she  was  to  acknowledge  these 
tokens  of  regard  was  a  matter  of  no  little  moment, 
and  was  as  frequently  and  vivaciously  discussed  the 
day  following  the  debut  as  were  the  notices  in  the 
morning  newspapers.  Some  believed  that  she  would 
return  their  thoughtfulness  in  kind,  telegram  for  tele- 
gram and  flower  for  flower,  while  others  hoped  for 
nothing  more  than  one  polite  note  of  thanks  that 
would  cover  all  cases. 

The  matter  was  decided  late  in  the  afternoon, 
when  Miss  Lorelle  herself  appeared  in  the  doorway 
of  the  big  room.  For  a  brief  moment  the  seven  young 
women  sat  staring  open-eyed  at  this  wonderful  vision 
of  loveliness  laughing  and  walking  toward  them  with 
outstretched  hands,  and  then,  wholly  forgetting  that 
the  lady  in  the  salmon-pink  cloth  dress  was  their 
patron  saint,  they  ran  to  her  and  threw  their  arms 
about  her  and  remembered  only  that  she  was  their 
old  friend  Maggie  Lorelle.  To  a  chorus  of  many 
questions  and  hysterical  laughter  she  was  half 
dragged,  half  carried,  to  the  nearest  desk,  where  they 
put  her  down  in  a  chair,  and  then  all  gathered  about, 
345 


THE    STAGE    DOOR 

as  closely  as  they  conveniently  could.  Some  sat  on 
the  desk,  and  others  sat  on  the  floor,  and  still  others 
had  to  content  themselves  with  an  outer  fringe  of 
chairs.  For  a  few  moments  there  was  silence,  while 
Miss  Lorelle  beamed  joyously  at  the  seven  young 
women,  and  the  eyes  of  the  seven  young  women 
strayed  from  the  close-fitting  salmon-pink  coat  to  the 
creaseless  skirt,  the  patent  leather  ties,  the  black  silk 
stockings,  the  glistening  white  kid  gloves,  and  the 
black  picture  hat  with  the  great  bow  of  pink  velvet. 

Miss  Cregar,  who  was  usually  regarded  as  the 
dean  of  the  clerks,  was  the  first  to  break  these  mo- 
ments of  silent  adulation.  "Maggie,"  she  said,  "I 
want  you  to  know  Miss  Bowles — she's  the  girl  that 
took  your  place  when  you  left." 

A  young  girl  with  very  red  cheeks  sitting  on  the 
floor  blushed  violently,  although  in  the  confusion 
she  had  embraced  Miss  Lorelle  as  enthusiastically  as 
the  others. 

Miss  Lorelle  smiled  cheerfully  and  took  the  girl's 

outstretched  hand  in  both  of  hers.  "I  have  to  thank 

you  for  a  telegram,  and  for  your  share  in  the  roses. 

That  was  the  best  part  of  last  night,  girls — the  tele- 

346 


THE    ROAD    TO     GLORY 

grams  and  your  flowers."  There  was  a  very  slight 
quaver  in  the  voice  of  the  speaker.  "You  see,  it 
showed  me  how  you  all  remembered  me,  and  that 
you  had  probably  been  interested  in  what  I  was 
doing." 

"Oh,  we  followed  you  all  right,"  said  Anna  Wilson 
from  her  perch  on  the  top  of  the  desk.  "We  saw  all 
your  pictures  in  the  papers  and  the  magazines,  and 
we  read  all  they  said  about  you,  and  the  automobiles 
and  the  diamonds  you  got.  Did  you  come  down  here 
in  your  automobile?" 

Miss  Lorelle  looked  up  suddenly  into  the  eyes  of 
the  speaker  and  then  into  those  of  the  little  group 
gathered  about  her.  The  stories  of  the  diamonds  and 
the  automobiles  had  been  regarded  so  differently  by 
different  people. 

"No,"  said  the  actress,  smiling  again,  "I  didn't 
come  in  my  automobile,  because,  you  see,  I  haven't 
got  one." 

"Haven't  got  one!"  they  echoed  in  chorus. 

"Why,  I  saw  a  picture  of  you,"  Miss  Wilson 
argued,  "and  you  were  stepping  into  your  private 
electric  hansom  with  two  men  on  the  box.  It  was  in 
347 


THE    STAGE    DOOR 

front  of  a  grand  house  with  a  garden  as  big  as  a 
public  park." 

"No,  I  haven't  got  a  single  automobile,  nor  even 
one  little  diamond." 

Keen  disappointment  was  clearly  written  on  the 
faces  about  her. 

"You  see,  all  those  stories  were  published  just  to 
advertise  the  show  I  was  with." 

"And  the  beautiful  flat  in  Chicago?"  asked  Miss 
Wilson. 

Miss  Lorelle  shook  her  head,  and  fairly  laughed 
aloud.  "Just  a  dream  of  the  press  agent.  When  he 
wrote  that  story,  I  was  living  in  a  boarding-house, 
trying  to  save  enough  money  to  buy  a  few  good 
clothes  and  some  imitation  pearls." 

"And  the  man  that  wrote  that  knew  it  all  the 
time?"  asked  a  dismayed  voice  from  the  fringe  of 
chairs. 

"All  the  time,"  said  Miss  Lorelle. 

"And  you  have  to  ride  all  rigged  up  like  a  horse 
in  the  street  cars  and  the  'L'?"  Miss  Wilson  asked 
almost  tearfully. 

"Well,  not  always,  Anna,  dear,  because,  you  see, 
348 


I'm  not  very  often  rigged  up  like  a  horse.  It's  only 
when  I  make  a  formal  call  like  this  that  I  wear  my 
good  clothes.  Besides — 

"I  saw  a  picture  of  you,"  interrupted  Miss  Wilson, 
"in  a  sable  coat  that  dragged  on  the  ground.  Don't 
tell  us  you  don't  own  that  either." 

"I'm  afraid  not,"  and  the  actress  smiled  and  shook 
her  head.  "We  borrowed  that  from  a  furrier.  Isn't  it 
awful  that  it's  not  my  own?" 

"And  the  all-lace  dress,"  questioned  Miss  Cregar 
dubiously,  "where  you  are  sitting  by  the  fireplace  in 
your  own  parlor  serving  tea  ?" 

"Oh,  that's  really  mine.  I  saved  for  four  months 
to  get  that  dress.  You  see,  that's  for  when  I'm  asked 
out  to  supper  at  night.  It's  fine — I'll  show  it  to  you 
some  time." 

The  faces  of  the  circle  brightened  considerably. 

"But  don't  you  always  go  out  to  supper  after  the 
play?"  came  from  the  outlying  chairs. 

"No.  I'm  not  always  asked — that  is,  by  people  I 
want  to  go  out  with — and  then,  you  see,  in  the  pro- 
fession you've  got  to  rest  a  lot.  You  can't  very  well 
go  out  every  night  and  do  your  work." 
349 


THE    STAGE    DOOR 

"Those  silk  stockings  you've  got  on  now,"  sug- 
gested Miss  Bowles  from  her  vantage  point  on  the 
floor,  "are  awful  thin." 

Miss  Lorelle  glanced  down  at  the  transparent  silk 
and  smiled.  "They  are  thin,  aren't  they  ?  They're  old 
ones  I  used  to  wear  on  the  stage." 

Miss  Bowles  continued.  "Do  you  have  to  buy 
your  own  stockings?" 

"Yes,  indeed,"  said  Miss  Lorelle — "my  own 
stockings  and  shoes  and  gloves  and — oh,  so  many 
things!  It's  terribly  expensive.  I  don't  really  know 
how  I'm  going  to  pay  my  board  and  the  laundry  bill 
sometimes.  Managers  are  not  very  generous." 

"  But  don't  you  get  a  big  salary  ?  " 

"Pretty  big;  but  then,  you  see,  I  have  to  keep  up 
a  show  for  it.  And  when  my  salary  goes  up,  if  it  ever 
does,  my  position  will  get  better,  too,  and  that  means 
that  I  must  use  cabs  and  keep  a  maid  and  live  in  a 
hotel." 

"  Do  you  live  in  a  hotel  now  ?  "  asked  the  wide-eyed 
Miss  Wilson. 

"Indeed  I  don't,"  said  the  actress.  "I'm  back  in 
my  old  room  at  Miss  Burns's,  where  I  lived  when  I 
350 


THE    ROAD    TO     GLORY 

was  working  here.  It's  fine  to  be  back  again.  You  re- 
member Miss  Burns — she  still  mothers  all  the  board- 
ers, and  the  old  place  is  as  clean  and  sweet  as  it  used 
to  be.  Just  wait  until  you  go  on  the  road,  Anna, 
and  live  in  railroad  trains  and  cheap,  stuffy  hotels, 
and  you'll  be  glad  to  be  back  in  your  old  home  on 
West  Tenth  Street,  too." 

Miss  Lorelle  glanced  at  the  clock,  and  rose  from 
her  chair.  "It's  six  o'clock,  girls,"  said  she,  "and 
you  must  be  getting  home.  I  suppose  you  still  take 
the  six-twenty-six  to  Rahway,  Vera?" 

Miss  Vera  Dobson  blushingly  admitted  that  she 
was  still  of  the  great  army  of  commuters.  "I  know 
it's  a  little  far,"  she  stammered. 

Miss  Lorelle  put  her  arms  about  the  girl  and  kissed 
her  affectionately  on  the  cheek.  "I  know  it  is,  Vera," 
she  said;  "but  it's  pretty  good  when  you  get  there — 
and,  after  all,  it's  home,  isn't  it?" 

The  girls  were  moving  slowly  toward  the  closets 
that  held  their  hats  and  coats.  "Oh,  Miss  Bowles," 
Miss  Lorelle  called,  "do  you  have  my  old  desk?  I'd 
so  like  to  see  it  again."  The  two  girls,  arm  in  arm, 
moved  down  the  room  until  they  came  to  the  desk 
351 


THE    STAGE    DOOR 

where  Miss  Lorelle  had  spent  so  many  hours.  In  a 
few  moments  they  were  joined  by  the  others. 

"Must  look  pretty  natural,"  suggested  Miss 
Cregar — "the  books  open  and  the  work  only  half 
done.  You  were  certainly  a  pretty  bad  clerk,  Maggie." 

Miss  Lorelle  picked  up  some  of  the  invoices  on  the 
desk  and  compared  them  with  their  numbers  in  the 
book.  "The  same  old  thing,  isn't  it?"  she  said. 

"Just  the  same — there's  never  any  change  here. 
Perhaps  you'd  like  to  finish  them  up  for  Miss 
Bowles?" 

"Oh,  indeed  I  would,"  said  Miss  Lorelle.  "In- 
deed, indeed  I  would.  It  would  be  so  like  old  times. 
I  shouldn't  make  any  mistakes,  I  promise  you." 

"It's  awfully  nice  of  you,"  stammered  Miss 
Bowles;  "but  really " 

"Please  let  me — just  as  a  favor,"  and  Miss  Lo- 
relle held  out  both  her  hands.  "Good-night,  Miss 
Bowles,  and  good-night  to  all  of  you,  girls.  I'll  stay  till 
Wilson  closes  up.  I  want  to  see  him.  Old  Wilson  is  still 
here,  isn't  he  ?  " 

"Yes,  he's  here  all  right,"  said  Miss  Cregar;  "but 
it  don't  seem  just  right  to  leave  you  alone,  Maggie." 
352 


THE    ROAD    TO     GLORY 

"You  always  used  to  leave  me  alone — you  know 
you  did.  Run  along  now,  all  of  you,  please." 

One  by  one  the  seven  girls  filed  before  her  and 
wished  her  good-night,  and  each  one  clasped  the 
salmon-pink  dress  in  a  fond  embrace.  When  Miss 
Lorelle  was  quite  alone  she  sat  down  in  her  old  chair 
and  turned  on  the  single  electric  globe  above  the 
desk.  The  shaded  light  fell  full  on  the  books  which 
she  had  once  known  so  very  well.  The  life  of  the  last 
year,  with  all  its  big  troubles  and  petty  successes 
was  forgotten  for  the  moment,  and  she  was  back 
again  in  the  monotonous,  happy  past  of  figures  and 
invoices  and  ledgers.  She  dipped  the  pen  in  the  ink 
and  then  dropped  it  back  on  the  desk,  just  as  she 
used  to  do,  and  with  her  chin  resting  on  her  hand 
she  turned  toward  the  open  window  with  its  box  of 
fragrant  heliotrope  and  to  the  quiet  little  garden  of 
the  rectory  beyond.  She  could  not  have  told  how  long 
she  sat  there;  but  when  she  heard  the  door  open  which 
led  from  the  private  office  of  the  Junior  Partner,  she 
hurriedly  picked  up  the  pen  and  began  copying  the 
numbers  of  the  invoices  in  the  book  before  her. 

In  the  dim  light  Gre^  did  not  recognize  her,  and, 
353 


THE    STAGE    DOOR 

thinking  it  was  one  of  the  clerks,  called  to  her  to 
come  into  his  office. 

When  he  saw  Miss  Lorelle  in  the  salmon-pink 
dress  standing  at  the  doorway,  he  hurriedly  rose 
from  his  desk  and  received  her  with  much  effusion. 
He  had  seen  her  the  night  before  at  the  Casino,  and 
he,  too,  had  read  the  stories  of  the  automobiles  and 
the  diamonds  and  the  sable  coat,  and  being  a  young 
man,  apt  in  the  belief  of  his  own  world,  had  placed 
his  own  construction  upon  them. 

The  girl  smiled  at  the  excessive  courtesy,  and  for 
a  brief  moment  allowed  her  hand  to  rest  in  his.  A 
year  before  she  had  left  the  little  room  as  a  discharged 
employee;  now  they  met  on  terms  of  a  certain  equality 
— at  least  of  mutual  independence. 

"This  is  indeed  an  honor,"  said  the  Junior 
Partner. 

"I  came  to  see  the  girls,"  Miss  Lorelle  replied, 
glancing  at  the  mass  of  papers  on  the  desk.  "And 
you — you  are  still  working  overtime  ?  "  She  stood  in 
the  centre  of  the  room,  looking  about  her  at  the  por- 
traits and  at  the  other  things  which  had  once  been 
so  familiar  to  her. 

354 


THE    ROAD    TO     GLORY 

"Do  sit  down,"  urged  Grey,  "and  tell  me  all 
about  yourself." 

Miss  Lorelle  took  the  chair  in  front  of  the  Junior 
Partner's  desk  and  began  slowly  pulling  on  her 
gloves. 

Her  late  employer  leaned  against  the  desk  and 
looked  down  into  the  slanting  eyes  and  the  oval  face 
shadowed  by  the  big  black  picture  hat. 

In  that  one  glance  he  noted  how  the  change  in  her 
life  had  already  written  itself  in  the  girl's  face — he 
saw  the  little  lines  and  the  faint  shadows.  There  was 
an  independence  too  in  her  manner  and  an  assurance 
in  her  speech  which  he  had  never  known  before.  In 
the  year  past  she  had  acquired  a  new  language. 

"It's  fine  to  see  you  again,"  he  said  enthusiasti- 
cally. "I  was  at  the  theatre  last  night,  and  was  really 
proud  of  you.  You  know  I  feel,  in  a  way,  responsible 
for  your  success." 

She  slowly  turned  her  eyes  toward  him  and  then 
back  to  the  desk.  "That — that's  what  you  said  to 
the  girl  in  mauve  who  sat  next  to  you  in  the  corner 
of  the  stage  box,  wasn't  it — I  mean  at  the  time  I  took 
the  first  call  after  my  song?" 
355 


THE    STAGE    DOOR 

"Why,  yes.  I  think  I  did  say  something  of  the 
kind.  She  really  admired  you  greatly — insisted  on 
asking  you  to  supper  with  us  after  the  show — and  all 
that  sort  of  thing." 

"The  lady  in  mauve  must  be  a  very  independent 
young  person.  And  what  did  you  insist  on  ?" 

"I?  Oh — I  was  sure  that  you  would  have  an  en- 
gagement. I  supposed  you  would  be  celebrating  your 
success  at  Rector's;  in  fact,  I  dropped  in  there  late 
in  the  hope  of  seeing  you;  but  you  weren't  there, 
were  you?" 

"No,  I  wasn't  there — nobody  happened  to  ask 
me  to  supper  last  night;  so  I  went  alone  to  Mr. 
Mink's.  Perhaps  you  don't  know  Mr.  Mink's — it's 
a  rather  clean  little  place  over  on  Sixth  avenue — 
and  you  sit  on  a  high  stool,  and  the  food  is  piled  all 
around  you  on  glass-covered  stands." 

"Really?"  said  the  Junior  Partner.  He  looked 
down  curiously  at  the  girl,  who  had  taken  up  his  pen 
and  was  beating  a  slow  tattoo  with  it  on  the  desk 
blotter.  "One  often  gets  such  wrong  ideas,"  he 
added.  "I  thought,  of  course,  that  you  would  be 
with  your  friends." 

356 


THE    ROAD    TO     GLORY 

"I'm  afraid  I  have  no  friends  in  New  York  except 
the  girls  in  the  office  here,  and  their  interest  appeared 
to  fade  a  bit  when  they  heard  that  my  automobile 
and  my  jewels  were  only  pipe  dreams  of  the  press 
agent.  They  seemed  glad  enough  to  go  home  at  six 
o'clock  when  I  told  them  I  still  used  the  street  cars. 
But  they're  all  right — after  all,  it's  pretty  good  to  have 
a  home  to  go  to." 

"But  I  can't  imagine  all  those  girls'  homes  are  so 
attractive  as  that,"  interrupted  the  Junior  Partner. 

"No,  you  can't  imagine  and  they  can't  imagine 
what  the  same  four  walls  and  the  same  faces  and  the 
same  little  welcome  means  every  evening  at  the  same 
hour.  I  know  it's  monotonous  enough,  all  right;  but 
I'll  tell  you  what  it  stands  for  to  a  girl — it  stands  for 
a  kind  of  protection.  If  a  wise  guy  of  an  hotel  clerk 
with  a  grin  on  his  face  gave  you  a  key  to  a  new  home 
every  night,  or  at  most  once  a  week,  that  same  monot- 
ony would  get  to  seem  pretty  good."  The  girl  tossed 
the  pen  on  the  desk  and  looked  squarely  into  the 
face  of  the  Junior  Partner. 

"Do  you  know  the  best  hour  of  the  day  to  me — 
now?" 

357 


THE    STAGE    DOOR 

Grey  shook  his  head,  and  slowly  folded  his  arms. 

"I'll  tell  you — it's  six  o'clock — when  the  whistles 
blow;  because  wherever  I  am,  whatever  city  or  any 
old  one-night  stand  I  happen  to  be  in,  I  know  that 
all  over  the  town  there  are  hundreds  of  men  and 
women  shutting  down  their  desks  and  putting  on 
their  hats  and  going  home — home.  When  they're  at 
work,  I'm  either  in  a  room  in  a  raw  hotel  or  walking 
the  main  street  and  being  pointed  out  as  one  of  'the 
troupe ' ;  and  when  night  comes  around  I  am  at  work 
with  paint  on  my  face  trying  to  amuse  these  same 
people.  And  I'll  tell  you,  Mr.  Grey,  even  if  a  girl 
does  succeed  in  this  business,  these  same  hours  go 
for  the  woman  star  as  well  as  for  the  girl  in  the  back 
row;  and  the  next  time  you  see  your  lady  friend  in 
the  mauve  dress  you  might  tell  her  all  this,  too.  It 
will  take  longer  to  say  than  that  you  put  me  in  the 
business;  but  it's  just  as  true,  and  it  will  make  con- 
versation." 

Miss  Lorelle  rose  from  her  seat  at  the  desk,  and, 
crossing  the  room,  stopped  in  front  of  the  looking- 
glass  over  the  fireplace  and  carefully  adjusted  her 
hat.  Reflected  in  the  mirror,  she  saw  the  good-looking 
358 


THE    ROAD    TO     GLORY 

features  of  Grey  smiling  quizzically  at  her  from 
across  the  room. 

"And  oh,  Mr.  Grey,"  she  said,  patting  her  hair  at 
the  temples  and  smiling  at  the  reflection  in  the  glass, 
"do  thank  the  lady  in  mauve  for  wanting  me  to 
come  to  supper.  It  does  seem  queer  that  the  man 
who  wouldn't  ask  me  was  the  same  one  that  lifted 
me  out  of  the  clerking  game  and  that  put  me  in  the 
show  business."  She  turned  and  held  out  her  hand 
to  him.  "Good-by,  Mr.  Grey — I'm  going  outside  to 
wait  for  Wilson.  I  want  to  see  him  when  he  makes 
his  round." 

The  Junior  Partner  took  her  hand  in  both  of 
his.  "I'm  sorry,"  he  said — "very,  very  sorry  if  I 
made  a  mistake.  I'm  sure  you  will  admit  that  I 
meant  well." 

"Meant  well?  Why,  of  course,  you  meant  well!" 
With  her  free  hand  the  girl  carefully  brushed  a  speck 
from  the  lapel  of  the  coat  of  the  Junior  Partner.  "But 
say,  honest  for  fair,  don't  you  find  that  most  of  the 
trouble  in  this  world  comes  from  the  people  who 
mean  well — I  mean  the  self-appointed  understudies 
for  the  general  manager  of  the  universe?  And  now 
359 


THE    STAGE    DOOR 

if  you'll  kindly  let  me  have  that  hand  back,  which  I 
need  in  my  business,  I'll  say  good-by." 

And  with  these  words  the  pale,  smiling  face  and 
the  salmon-pink  dress  of  Miss  Lorelle  passed  forever 
out  of  the  social  life  of  the  Junior  Partner. 


360 


A    000  111  511     2 


